The Dark Tide's Pull
by SyrupylikeBreakfastinMontag
Summary: Harry goes back in time to 1944 to deal with Voldemort before he decides to make seven horcruxes. Unfortunately for Harry, though, dealing with a 17 year old Tom Riddle isn't as easy as he thought it would be. TM/HP HP/TM Contains slash.
1. Chapter 1

The Dark Tide's Pull

*Author's Note: Hi, guys! This story starts off during the 6th book before Dumbledore's death, and then becomes AU from there. This story will contain slash, and the predominant pairing will end up being Tom Marvolo Riddle/Harry Potter, so if that's not your cup of tea then I recommend you turn elsewhere. I hope you guys enjoy!*

"Time weighs down on you like an old, ambiguous dream. You keep on moving, trying to sleep through it. But even if you go to the ends of the earth, you won't be able to escape it. Still, you have to go there- to the edge of the world. There's something you can't do unless you get there."  
― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

Feet land on a solid, stone floor. Harry wobbles for a moment, arms thrusting out like birds' wings to his sides to steady himself. His body poises on the balls of his feet for a moment, then he's stable once more. Fingers immediately fly to the cord around Harry's neck, checking that the small hourglass hanging there hasn't vanished or been damaged by the landing. That time-turner is Harry's only way home from this place.  
Harry glances around, taking stock of his surroundings. It feels odd to be in a castle so like his own Hogwarts, but not. This Hogwarts belongs to another time, exists only in others' memories. Yet here he is. It shouldn't be possible, but it is. Harry quickly conceals the time-turner beneath his shirt. Can't have people seeing it and guessing that he does not belong. He knows that he should be hurrying along to Professor Dippet's office before anyone sees him, but he takes a moment to gather his thoughts and collect himself. The memory of Dumbledore's office just a few weeks ago fills his head: a memory of an event far off in the future, yet in his past. No point in ruminating on that idea, though. The quandaries are too much for any one person to handle, especially when one has other more pressing matters to attend to.

_"You have to go back to this moment, Harry: this exact instant. This conversation with Professor Slughorn was the turning point for Voldemort. This was when the decision was made. He'd obviously been turning over the idea of making more than one Horcrux, but he needed that confirmation. After all, it was something no one had attempted before. No one had dared to try and split their soul more than once, let alone seven times. At this point he'd almost definitely already made his first Horcrux: the diary, but you have handled that Horcrux before and you can again. What I'm not so sure we can face is the prospect of finding and destroying seven Horcruxes. Not with what little time we have left."_

_ Dumbledore stared at Harry with such intensity in his eyes, such conviction, and Harry knew that no matter what anyone else said, he couldn't do anything but trust him completely. Even if he was being sent back over fifty years in time. That didn't mean he didn't have questions, though._

_ "But Hermione told me that you can't go so far back in time because you could change things too much," protested Harry. "An event like Voldemort growing up surely has had too much of an impact on the world for us to safely change it, right?" _

_ A tiny smile quirks up the corners of Dumbledore's thin lips._

_ "Aah, but, my dear boy, time isn't that malleable. Once time has passed, it is lost to us, never to be regained. Time can always be counted on to do one thing, Harry: to move forward. The past is gone; we now only have the present and the promise of the future ahead of us. This is where magic cogs up the works, though. With magic, wizards and witches have found a way to interfere with time's straightforward progress. However, even with this magic, we can only alter the events of history so much. History does not want to rewrite itself. The past is meant to be unchangeable, gone forever. So, in order to compensate for magical changes, time takes the easiest, and indeed most practical, way out: it adjusts the present in whichever way will provide the fewest accompanying changes to the past."_

_ "I don't understand," interjects Harry._

_ "In other words, Harry, if you were to go back in time to 1944 and kill Tom and destroy his diary, then time would take the least complicated way out of the quandary that change to the past would create: it would simply remove Voldemort from the present. I believe that he would just vanish all of a sudden, in the middle of whatever it was he was doing. No additional changes to the past. A Tom Riddle would still grow up, amass an army, and kill hundreds of people, then vanish. What I'm trying to say here, what's key to this entire argument is this fact: the past cannot be changed, Harry. Only the present can be altered. Do you understand?"_

_ "I think so, sir."_

_ "Excellent."_

Harry takes a deep breath, and squares his shoulders. He can do this. He hurries off down the corridor, trying to ignore the thin feeling in his stomach caused by this Hogwarts that is not his own. He knows his way around, but the usual feeling of familiarity the castle brings isn't there. It's unsettling, but he has other things to worry about. As Harry comes to a halt in front of the Gargoyles guarding the entrance to the headmaster's office, he realizes that one of those things he needs to worry about is the fact that he has no idea what the password is.

One of the gargoyles gives Harry a judgmental up and down.

"Password?" it asks gruffly. Normally, Harry would just start listing off all of the different sweets he knows, but this office doesn't belong to Dumbledore anymore. It's unlikely that Professor Dippet shares Dumbledore's excessive sweet tooth.

"Ummm.." Harry stutters, running a hand awkwardly through his unruly mop of hair. "I don't think I was told the password, but I was told to go straight to the headmaster's office once I got here. Couldn't you tell him that I'm down here, and that I want to see him?"

The gargoyle's skeptical gaze grows even sourer, if that's possible.

"Um, please," Harry adds. The gargoyle's glare doesn't soften.

"I'm afraid I can't disturb the headmaster at the moment," the gargoyle drawls, clearly taking a pompous pleasure in this rejection, "not for a boy who doesn't even know the password at any rate."

"Oh, come on!" snaps Harry, beginning to lose his temper. "He's expecting me! I'm supposed to see him!" That part at least is true. Dumbledore went back before Harry to have a discussion with his past self, and he told Harry that his younger self would have a word with the headmaster. The story is to be that Harry is an exchange student, who was previously home-schooled, but who now wants to join his peers for his final year of education. The gargoyle, however, does not look convinced.

"Need some help?" asks a voice from behind him. Harry jumps and whirls around; he hadn't heard anyone coming, too distracted by his argument with a grumpy hunk of stone. Surprise flickers across Harry's face for a moment before he forces himself to conceal his shock and smile. He must smile. He cannot give himself away. Not to this boy.

"Yes, please, thank you," Harry forces out, trying his best to sound relieved. "I have an appointment with Professor Dippet, but it seems I've forgotten the password."

The boy smiles, a charming smile that lights up his pale face, but doesn't quite reach his eyes. He really is quite handsome, with high cheekbones and chiseled features. He has dark, almond shaped eyes: so dark brown they're almost black. Dark curls cut short neatly frame his face, contrasting with his pallid complexion pleasingly. It's easy to see how this boy could charm an elderly woman into giving him the only possession of real value she owned.

"Yes, of course," says Tom Marvolo Riddle, turning to face the gargoyle. "Gooseberry," he says sharply and the gargoyle grudging hops aside, giving Harry one last glare. The floor creaks and groans, the pained sounds of stone grinding against stone, and a stair case rises from the ground before them.

"After you," Tom says politely to Harry, gesturing with one hand for Harry to go in front of him up the winding staircase.

"Thanks," replies Harry, forcing himself to smile once more. "My name's Harry by the way. Harry Potter." There's no point in lying about his name. This Voldemort has no idea who Harry Potter is or why he should be wary of him.

"Nice to meet you, Harry," says Tom, extending a pale hand out to Harry in greeting. "I'm head boy here. Tom Riddle." Harry only hesitates for a second, then he reaches out and clasps Tom's pallid fingers in his own. For an instant, Harry's scar stings, a momentary flash of hot white pain searing through the rent flesh. Then Harry lets go of Tom's hand and hastily steps back.

"The pleasure is mine," his mouth forces out. Internally Harry curses; he had hoped that the connection between Voldemort and himself would have vanished this far in the past, banking on the fact that at this point in time that connection hadn't been forged yet. It seems time doesn't feel like playing it that way, though. Even at age seventeen Tom Riddle's soul still recognizes its counterpart in Harry. It's possible that Tom hadn't felt anything, though. After all, back in Harry's time it had taken Voldemort years to recognize the bond they shared. Harry allows himself to study Tom's handsome features for a moment, just a moment, before turning and heading away up the stairs. Tom's expression is schooled into one of polite interest, each feature held perfectly in check. Only Tom's dark eyes give anything away, boring into Harry's face as though he's trying to see through the other boy's flesh. Harry forces himself to walk slowly up the stairs, avoiding the instincts thrumming through his every vein telling him to run as fast as he can.

Tom felt it. He must've. It's the only possible reason for the sudden sharpening of the other boy's attention, and Harry does not want Tom's attention. Not yet.

At the top of the stairs, Harry knocks politely on headmaster Dippet's door. Tom remains near the top of the stairs, standing with his hands folded innocently behind his back and keeping a polite distance.

"Come in!" calls a slightly high-pitched, squeaky voice. Gingerly, Harry opens the door and steps in. Immediately, all of the slight differences between this office and Dumbledore's wash over him, the main difference being the little man sitting behind the headmaster's desk. Professor Dippet smiles hugely upon seeing Harry, his face creasing into a sea of wrinkles at the gesture.

"Aah!" he exclaims cheerfully, leaping up from his chair and hurrying around to shake Harry's hand. "You must be Mr. Potter. Professor Dumbledore told me you'd be coming, of course. I was so sorry to hear that your Godfather passed away. It's shocking how suddenly someone we love can be taken out of our lives." Real sympathy fills Professor Dippet's warm brown eyes at these words, and Harry finds himself immediately liking the older man. Dippet may have fallen for Voldemort's charming guise, but he's obviously a very caring individual. Just a little too ready to see the good in everyone, perhaps.

"Thank you very much, sir," Harry states courteously. "It has been hard." Professor Dippet's thick, white eyebrows crease together in worry at these words, and he pats Harry's hand once comfortingly. The story Harry and Dumbledore had decided on was that Harry had been homeschooled by his Godfather until he passed away quite suddenly, explaining Harry's last minute application to Hogwarts. This story would also keep the lying to a minimum. After all, lies are so much more convincing when there's some truth to them. Keeping Harry as an orphan from a young age and including Sirius' death would help Harry describe his past more convincingly.

"Well, I do think you'll find plenty of people to help support you through this tough time during your stay here. Hogwarts is a very welcoming community, Mr. Potter, and I'm sure your transition into living here will go smoothly. Now then," continues Professor Dippet, releasing Harry's hand and walking over to a cabinet on the far side of the room, "the only thing left then is to get you sorted into your house. The first years already went through their sorting yesterday, so unfortunately we're going to just have to sort you privately right here. Has someone already explained how the housing system works here?"

"Yes, sir," says Harry with a nod. "Professor Dumbledore talked me through it when I met with him earlier."

"Excellent!" calls Professor Dippet, his whole upper body now swallowed up by the cabinet in his search. "Now where is the darn thing…? Ah-ha! There you are!" Professor Dippet finally emerges from the cabinet, waving the sorting hat victoriously.

"This, Mr. Potter, is the sorting hat. All we have to do is place this on your head, and it will tell us which house will suit you best." Harry nods, trying his best to look like this is all new information to him. Professor Dippet waves Harry towards him, and the brunette swiftly complies. One foot treds in front of the other and then Harry is standing a mere foot away from the little, white-haired man. Professor Dippet reaches up, having to stand slightly on tip-toe, and places the sorting-hat reverentially on top of Harry's head. Harry remembers briefly when he was so young that this hat fell down over his eyes, but now it just rests innocently on top of his messy, black hair. For an instant, there's nothing but apprehensive silence, then the hat speaks for Harry's ears alone.

**Harry James Potter. We meet again.**

Shock shakes Harry slightly, but he forces his face to remain blank. Can't have Professor Dippet seeing the effects of this conversation on his face.

_You remember me?_ he thinks. _But how can that be? In this time you haven't sorted me yet. In this time I haven't even been born. _

**Mr. Potter, my magic is linked with Hogwarts. I am as ancient as this school, built by its founders just as it was. My connection with this school is not bounded by anything as flimsy as time. It doesn't matter when you attend. You are a student here, so you are bound to Hogwarts just as I am. I'd know you whenever you put me on your head, be it fifty years ago or fifty years in the future. **

_I see_, thinks Harry. _Well, I've come back to this time for a purpose._

**Yes, Mr. Potter, I can see that. It's all here in your head, after all. And I can also see that you want me to place you in a different house this time around, not because you don't like the house you chose last time, but because your goal is in Slytherin.**

_Please!_ thinks Harry emphatically. It would all be over if the sorting hat didn't put him in Slytherin. There's no way that he'd be able to get close enough to Voldemort to figure out where he hid his diary if the hat doesn't. And Harry must find that diary. He must.

The hat doesn't bother replying to Harry, instead calling out for everyone to hear: "Slytherin!" Harry holds back a sigh of relief as Professor Dippet pulls the tattered hat from his head. Slytherin. He has a chance.

"Well, this actually works out nicely, Mr. Potter," declares Professor Dippet as he puts the sorting hat back into its resting place in the cupboard. "I called the head boy here to escort you to whatever your new house may be, and he is actually a Slytherin as well! I'm sure Tom will get you settled in nicely!"

At this, Professor Dippet waves his wand, causing the door to his office to spring open.

"Do come in, Tom!" he calls merrily. Tom steps forward into the doorway, his hands still politely folded behind his back. He nods politely to Professor Dippet, looking for all the world like a model student and not at all like the next dark lord.

"Harry Potter, this is Tom Riddle. Tom, this is Harry." Tom smiles politely at Harry at Professor Dippet's words, but Harry can see Tom's jaw tighten slightly. Clearly Voldemort doesn't like being called Tom. Too ordinary for a man who desires with all his heart to be extraordinary, but kissing up to the old man holds precedence. Tom is not yet powerful enough to make enemies, especially not enemies who hold positions of power like Professor Dippet. No, even though fear is a weapon in Voldemort's arsenal, charm is the predominant one for the time being.

"Harry here has just been sorted into Slytherin house. I do hope that you will help make him feel quite at home there, Tom," continues Professor Dippet, oblivious to Tom's irritation. Not his fault really, though. Only someone who's been forewarned of Voldemort's hatred of his muggle-father's name would be able to see it.

"Of course, Professor," replies Tom, smiling warmly at the elderly man. Then he turns his dark gaze on Harry, brown, emotionless eyes boring into Harry's bright green ones. Harry can feel his heart beating faster in his chest, ramming almost painfully against his rib cage. He hopes Voldemort can't hear it.

"Welcome to Slytherin, Mr. Potter."

*Author's Note: Well, what do you guys think? I already have the next several chapters planned out and have started writing chapter two, so I should update this story quickly. However, if you guys have any requests for this story, I may be able to include them depending on how they fit in with what I already have planned. Chapter two will start to get the competitive chemistry going between Harry and Tom more, so you guys have that to look forward to. ;) Thank you for reading, and please comment with any feedback you may have. :)*


	2. Chapter 2

The Dark Tide's Pull Ch. 2

*Author's Note: Hey guys! I updated this story nice and fast for you guys. I just want to thank everyone for continuing to read my story, and I'd especially like to thank everyone who commented and left me such lovely feedback. It is much appreciated. I hope that this chapter will satisfy. Enjoy!*

"You've a good heart. Sometimes that's enough to see you safe wherever you go. But mostly, it's not."  
― Neil Gaiman, _Neverwhere_

"So you're a transfer student, then?" asks Tom, his voice one of polite interest. Harry trots along the corridor after him, keeping his distance from the other boy while trying his best to not seem like he's doing it. No need for Tom to pick up on Harry's apprehension of him. After all, transfer student Harry has no reason to fear Tom. Not yet, at least.

"Yeah," Harry replies, struggling to keep his tone casual. It feels so strange to be making small talk with the dark lord, the man who had killed his parents and so many other people he cares for. But then again, this Tom Riddle hasn't done any of that yet. As far as Harry knows, the only people Tom has killed at this point are Myrtle, Tom Riddle Sr., and his muggle grandparents. Still not a great track record, though.

"Cutting it a bit close aren't you, Potter?" continues Tom mildly, seemingly oblivious to Harry's inner struggle. "Classes start this Monday after all."

"Yes, well, I didn't realize I would need to transfer in until just recently," Harry replies. "I was homeschooled by my god father until recently, but then he suddenly passed away just a few weeks ago."

"My condolences," states Tom, not sounding that sorry to Harry at all. They're just nice words; the meaning behind them is gone. Tom knows he's expected to say them, though.

"Thanks," murmurs Harry. The pair descend down a flight of stone steps, Tom leading the way, and the darkness of the dungeons envelopes them. Harry watches as blackness swallows up Tom's pale form before him. Then he takes a deep breath, and allows the dungeon's depths to engulf him as well. The flickering firelight of a torch illuminates Tom's wan features, sucking them up from the darkness in front of Harry. For an instant Harry can see the fire reflected across Tom's dark irises, and he can't repress a slight shudder. Hopefully Tom will just blame the shiver on the damp chill down here, though.

"Well, Potter," declares Tom, "this is the entrance to the Slytherin common room. The password changes every month. Do not tell the current password to anyone who is not in your house. Only Slytherins are allowed down here." Harry nods, and Tom seems satisfied that this means Harry will obey.

"The current password is 'Forked Tongue'." Instantly the stone wall begins sliding apart, splitting neatly in two to reveal a narrow passageway down the middle. Tom doesn't bother to wait for the passageway to open completely, instead striding off down the newly revealed corridor as it's still forming. Stones slide away in front of him as though moving especially for him, as if each stone is afraid to touch the slender boy. Harry jogs along after Tom, familiar with this route from the time in his second year when he used polyjuice potion to turn into Goyle.

"Welcome to the Slytherin common room," states Tom, and the pair emerge into a sea of silver and green. Dark green and black leather sofas and armchairs lie strewn across the room, arranged into little clusters facing each other. At the far end of the room stands a huge fireplace, the dark, intricate stone work of which spreads all the way up from the floor to the ceiling. Perched above the fireplace is the Slytherin emblem of a coiled snake rising up, fangs bared in warning. The whole room is bathed in a soft, greenish light. Some of this emerald glow stems from little round lamps floating about around the ceiling like green bubbles, but most of it comes from the two large windows on either side of the fireplace. This far down no sunlight pours in from these windows. Instead, the windows reveal the murky green depths of the lake. For an instant, Harry swears he can see a Grindylow grinning evily through the glass, but then it swims away and is gone, absorbed into the dark water. The room certainly does look regal, but in a chilling way. This common room holds none of the cozy warmth of Gryffindor tower, although the soft rhythmical noise of the lake water swishing back and forth is rather soothing.

As soon as Tom enters, a group of boys occupying one of the clusters of seats leap to their feet. They had been talking animatedly mere seconds earlier, but now they are dead silent. They all swivel to face Tom, although they keep their gazes fixed respectfully on the floor. Harry raises an eyebrow. This kind of loyalty isn't exactly subtle. How have other people not noticed Tom's powerful hold over others by now if they behave this way towards him? Although perhaps they deem the Slytherin common room safe for this kind of behavior. The way no one else seems surprised by their actions confirms this theory. Obviously Tom's rule over Slytherin house is common knowledge here.

Harry glances over at Tom curiously, and frowns slightly when he sees that Tom is looking Harry over smugly. Obviously he's quite pleased with this little display of his power over his fellow students. Harry supposes that Tom means to put him in his place now, to show Harry who's boss here. Tom seems content to keep the display of his influence limited to this for now, though, since he doesn't demand that Harry bow down to him as well. Instead, Tom merely crooks a finger at his gang, beckoning them over. Instantly they're clambering all over themselves to get to him.

"Potter, meet your fellow seventh years," says Tom formally once everyone is standing around him in a practiced half circle. "This is William Avery." He gestures to a tall, good-looking blonde boy with a thin, rather gaunt face and high, prominent cheekbones. Avery holds himself up proudly, his shoulders thrust back and his head held high. He's obviously a rather vain boy; his hair has been carefully coifed and gelled into submission and his robes are perfectly pressed. He obviously cares quite a bit about his appearance. Avery nods once at Harry, giving the shorter boy a slightly skeptical once over.

"Preston Lestrange," continues Tom, pointing at the black haired boy standing next to Avery. Lestrange looks almost deathly pale, something his inky black hair does nothing to help. His frame is thin and wiry, and his expression looks like he perpetually smells something that's gone a bit off. There's a malicious glint in the boy's grey eyes that has Harry feeling on edge. This is not a boy to be trusted.

"Edmund Rosier," Tom goes on, indicating the next boy. Rosier is the only boy in the bunch who's wearing an actually friendly expression. He has a good-natured face, with thick, straight eyebrows, a square jaw, and a mischievous glimmer in his warm brown eyes. He's the tannest boy of the bunch, with caramel colored skin and brown curly hair. His smile looks a bit like he's laughing at a private joke in his head, and Harry wonders for a moment what he's doing here in Slytherin. But then again, even cheerful jokesters can look out for themselves above others. Just because something in Rosier's expression reminds him a bit of Fred and George doesn't mean that he really is like them.

"Sean Mulciber." Harry gulps slightly as his gaze lands on the huge boy standing just to Voldemort's left. Tom had seemed tall to Harry upon first impression, but standing beside Mulciber Tom looks miniscule. Maybe something he ought to change if he really wants to seem intimidating. It's hard to seem both puny and scary all at once. Mulciber reminds Harry a bit of Crabbe and Goyle: thuggish and not that bright. His expression seems frozen in a perpetual state of confusion, and his small, dark eyes look dull and lifeless. Harry immediately marks him off as dumb muscle.

"Drew Stoddard." If Harry had thought that Mulciber is big, then he had been wrong. Oh so very, very wrong. Mulciber is miniscule compared to this boy. Unlike Mulciber, however, Stoddard doesn't look dumb. He doesn't even look angry or violent the way Mulciber does. Stoddard's blue eyes seem gentle as they observe Harry. His posture is peaceful as well, holding no tension in his fists or shoulders. He isn't bad looking either. He has black hair cut short, a soft tan to his skin, and pleasing, classic features. This Stoddard may serve as muscle to Tom, but he certainly doesn't seem thuggish to Harry. The way he stands close at Tom's right shows a deep loyalty to the other boy, though. It's clear that anyone going after Tom would have to go through Stoddard first, and Merlin that's quite a lot to go through.

"And this is Jonathon Nott," concludes Tom blandly. Harry starts upon hearing the next name. After all, this slender boy must be Theodore Nott's father. Jonathon is much better looking than his son, though. He has shoulder length ice blond hair, intelligent grey eyes, sharp cheekbones, full lips, and a laid-back air about him that Harry finds pleasing despite himself.

"Everyone, this is Harry Potter. A new seventh year transfer student to our house." Harry nods, unsmiling as he appraises this group of boys. Tom is showing off his power through this little demonstration right now, and Harry doesn't like it. The words and introductions are friendly, but the way they follow his every command is a challenge: submit or face my gang. Tom wants Harry to see his complete control over these boys, and he wants Harry to fear it. Harry doesn't feel inclined to give him that satisfaction.

"Nice to meet you all," he spits out, staring straight at Riddle. They stand there for a moment, tension hanging heavily in the air between them as Harry and Tom stare intensely into each other's eyes. Then Tom nods slightly and the other boys rush forward, shaking Harry's hand and bombarding him with questions. Apparently Harry had passed the test, whatever that test was.

"Potter," asks Avery thoughtfully, "that's a pureblood name isn't it?" Harry nods, not bothering to add that although he bears a pureblood name, his mother was muggleborn. He doubts that little tidbit of knowledge would go down well with this group.

"Excellent!" exclaims Avery, seemingly relieved. "Couldn't have any unclean blood stinking up the place." Harry tenses, trying to force his anger down. It's times like this when he curses his fiery temper. He had known that he would have to deal with these racist prejudices in order to get close to Voldemort, he had just hoped that he wouldn't have to put up with them so soon.

"They're letting in more and more filthy mudblood's every day," continues Avery, oblivious to Harry's rapidly growing rage. "They're sullying the good name of magic, really. How they dare to call themselves wizards and witches I'll never know." Harry forces himself to take deep, calming breaths. He must stay calm. Calm, and not angry. Nope, not at all.

"It's too bad more of them weren't wiped out last year," Avery goes on.

"What happened last year?" Harry asks despite already knowing the answer. The Chamber of Secrets happened last year. Voldemort happened last year. Chilling yellow eyes had fallen on their prey, turning their victims to stone one by one until finally killing one: a sad girl crying in the bathroom all by herself, now doomed to cry there forever more. It's Lestrange who answers Harry's question, a satisfied smirk creeping over his ghostly white face.

"Slytherin's heir opened the Chamber of Secrets, and released Slytherin's monster." Harry glances briefly at Tom at this, expecting to see a smug expression on the other boy's face. Tom's features are carefully blank, though. Apparently not even this "close" group of friends is trusted enough to know that it was Tom who sent the basilisk hunting.

"Slytherin's monster?" Harry asks dutifully.

"Back when the school was founded," begins Lestrange, obviously enjoying telling the story, "Slytherin created a secret chamber in the school, somewhere only he and his heirs could go. In this chamber, Slytherin bred a monster so horrible that only he and his descendants could control it. He then put this monster into a magical slumber in the hopes that one day his heir would return and free the beast, ridding the school of all of those with unclean blood."

At this point Nott interjects, taking over the story's telling.

"Slytherin was against allowing mudbloods to attend Hogwarts," Nott explains. "But the other founders refused to listen to him. So, last year the chamber was finally opened, releasing the monster on the school's occupants. It moved silently, invisibly about the school. No one saw it, at least no one who could later tell anyone about it."

"A bunch of mudbloods were petrified," exclaims Lestrange excitedly. "They were dropping down into stone heaps all over the place. Only one girl died, though." He sounds disappointed.

"They were talking about closing the school for a while," interjects Rosier, "but then they found some great big spider that oaf Hagrid was hiding. Blamed the whole thing on him and chucked him out of the school. Like that idiot was capable of being Slytherin's heir… The attacks did stop after that, though."

A muscle spasms in Harry's jaw as he tries to contain his anger. Poor Hagrid had taken the blame, when the only mistake he'd ever made was thinking that big dangerous beasts could make cute, cuddly pets. Hagrid had a good heart, and unfortunately that wasn't enough when facing a pristine prefect like Tom. It had been Tom's word against Hagrid's, and who would believe the half-giant harboring an Acromantula over the model student.

"Too bad," drawls Tom, sounding a bit bored. "We could have done with losing a few more of those filthy mudblood's before the beast stopped."

At this Harry's already drawn temper snaps.

"Riddle…" he says ponderously, "I didn't think that was a pureblood name." Harry turns to face the other boy, staring him coldly straight in the eye: an obvious challenge. Tom instantly stiffens. Harry had hit a nerve, and he knows it. Something Voldemort had always kept quiet was the fact that his father, his namesake, was a muggle. Not only had Harry's comment struck at Tom's blood status, but it also brought up the other boy's name, something Voldemort hated so much that he had shed it as soon as he could.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am Voldemort._

In an instant Tom's wand is drawn and pointing at Harry's face. Only Harry's excellent fighting instincts allow him to get his wand out of his pocket in time. Even that speed doesn't seem like it's going to be quick enough, though. Harry's wand is barely in his grasp when Voldemort finishes his incantation: "Crucio!" Harry's wand moves on its own, jerking Harry's hand up in its wake as a violet jet of light streams from its tip, meeting Tom's curse head on. Two brilliant jets of light collide in midair and fizzle out. The force of the collision knocks Tom back a step, but he quickly catches his balance. Internally Harry curses. The twin cores. Both Tom's and Harry's wands share feathers from the same phoenix, making them siblings. Neither wand would allow its owner to deeply harm the other. Harry had hoped that going back in time would remove the effects, but apparently not. Nothing's that easy.

"I don't want a fight," states Harry, keeping his wand fixed on Tom's slender frame. "I see no reason we can't get along, but I will defend myself if attacked." Tom doesn't say anything; he just keeps his dark gaze fixed on Harry's determined face. His dark brows crease together, his mind churning. Once more something strange has happened between Harry and himself, and Tom is calculating. Then, suddenly, Tom is all smiles, lowering his wand and offering a conciliatory hand to Harry.

"Of course, Potter," he says politely, his handsome features arranged into a welcoming expression. "It was uncalled for for me to suddenly attack you so. How rude of me. I do hope that you will accept my apologies." Tom remains smiling, but as Harry cautiously accepts Tom's hand to shake, he can see the cold fury burning in the other boy's almond eyes.

"Apology accepted," Harry replies, quickly snatching his hand from the other boy's grasp. "Well," he continues, trying his best to sound casual, and not at all like his wand had just performed something unique in response to Tom's magic. "I think I'd better go get settled in and head off to bed. Which staircase leads to the seventh year dormitory?"

"Um, the one on the left," stutters Rosier, his expression one of mingled shock and confusion. Clearly, seeing his lord bested at magic is not something that happens often. Or at all. "It's the door all the way at the very top."

Harry smiles politely at Rosier, nods once to Tom, then flees up the steps away from the group of boys. As soon as he's gone everyone turns to stare dumbfounded at Tom.

"You're going to let him get away with that?" exclaims Avery indignantly. Without even looking at him, Tom points his wand right at Avery's chest and mutters, "Crucio." He can't tolerate that kind of disrespect, not after being defeated right before their eyes like that. No, now more than ever Tom must be harsh with them. They must fear his strength; fear and desire it. As Avery twitches, groaning on the floor, Tom speaks, addressing the group firmly.

"Let him think he's safe for now. Tomorrow, we corner him. Tomorrow he pays. Until then everyone play nice. Let him think all is forgiven." As wicked grins spread around the group, Tom just stares at the place where Harry's hurrying form had disappeared. Something is going on between Tom and that boy that he can't understand. Something powerful. The only reason Tom let Harry go is that he can't face the dark haired boy until he knows what that something is. Despite himself, Tom feels afraid, and he doesn't like it at all. Fear is for other people, lesser people. Tomorrow, fear would be for Harry Potter.

*Author's note: Well, guys, the competition between Tom and Harry is on. Next chapter I hope to get things heated up even more, and hopefully start the romantic spark between them as well. The next chapter should be ready and posted soon, so look out for it. Please comment with any feedback or requests for this story you may have. Thank you for reading!*


	3. Chapter 3

The Dark Tide's Pull Ch. 3

*Author's Note: I am on an updating roll! Thank you so much to everyone who's been following this story, especially those of you who have left such encouraging reviews. I hope that you like this latest addition. Enjoy!*

"Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth."  
― Oscar Wilde

Harry lies tangled up in silver and green sheets, caught up in the mental meltdown of that hazy moment between wakefulness and sleep. His bed curtains are spelled shut around him, coated with as many defensive spells as Harry could think of. After all, he has just insulted lord Voldemort. You never know what his followers might try to do to him in the middle of the night when he's unconscious and vulnerable.

Harry's thoughts aren't functioning now as sleepiness garbles them into gibberish. The soft, rhythmic sloshing noise of the lake water swishing to and fro just on the other side of the stone walls is soothing, lulling Harry further into slumber. A second later, that second that no one ever remembers, Harry transitions into sleep. His slow, steady breaths fill the empty dormitory. No one else has gone to bed yet, despite the lateness of the hour.

A few sleep stages later, the dreams begin.

_You're strutting silently down the dark corridor. All around you stone walls slither by to be left behind. This castle is yours, these halls yours. After dark you and your people own them. All around you silver coated faces smile maliciously and laugh. Your people joke around, playfully insulting and shoving each other. They're high on this feeling of power, high on the knowledge that they have nothing to fear; you guys are the scariest things in this castle now._

_ You've been wandering for at least ten minutes now. People are beginning to grow antsy as you search for prey but find none. People are catching on, word is spreading. "Don't go out past curfew. They'll get you. The masked men will get you." But someone is always either too defiant or stupid to listen. Someone is always out of bed. Arrogant fools. They think that it can't happen to them, that they won't be caught. The masked men happen to other people. Well not tonight._

_ You round a corner and a smile splits your face, hidden by your silver mask. Some idiotic fourth year boy and his little girlfriend are snogging in a dark alcove. Hands wander, tongues slide. The laughter of your people morphs into loud catcalls, and the young boy and girl look up. They're wearing Gryffindor red and gold, but their faces don't look so brave at the moment. Fear has paralyzed your victims, and you bask in the feel of it. Their weakness makes you stronger._

_ Your people look to you for permission, for inspiration. Most of them were bullies long before they met you, but you have made them ambitious. You have driven them to even higher heights of cruelty. You have ideas of ways to bring people lower that they could never dream of. People are so simple, so easy to break. Pain can cause anyone to snap, to beg, to plead for you to stop. Pain and the fear of pain can make people do anything, say anything. Enough pain and fear for long enough can make people believe anything, too. _

_ Your leather coated hand points at the girl._

_ "Separate them," you hiss, your voice distorted, unrecognizable. After all, no one can know that this masked leader is you. You have a reputation to keep. Only Slytherin house can know the extent of your power for now, and even they must be kept carefully in check. One ill word into the wrong ear could ruin everything. That old fool Dumbledore already suspects too much. _

_ Your people rush forward, cackling and cajoling as they drag the girl and boy kicking and screaming apart. One of your followers quickly casts a silencing spell around the area, keeping your victims' screams from drawing the attention of any teachers who may be nearby. You hum approvingly. Nott always was a smart one. The Gryffindor girl calls her boyfriend's name over and over, kicking and struggling against the giant black figure holding her in place. You snort. Fighting against Mulciber's hold is pointless. The boy may be a complete imbecile but he's built like a house. He serves his purpose. _

_ Hidden behind your mask, safe behind your anonymity, you raise your wand and point it at the Gryffindor boy. _

_ "Imperius." _

_ Nothing hurts more than being betrayed by someone you love and trust, or so you've been told. Let the boyfriend be the one to break the girl. All around you, your people hoot and cheer, safe as a group behind their masks too._

Harry wakes up with a gasp, jolting upright in bed. His breaths come in rapid, shallow gasps and his body is coated in a thin layer of sweat. Voldemort: he had been seeing through the other boy's eyes. Harry groans, rubbing a weary hand across his face and through his tousled hair. It would seem that their mental connection is still intact and as strong as ever. Yet another thing the time difference has not changed. Except perhaps here, it is to Harry's advantage. Back in his time, it had been Voldemort who first figured out about and exploited their link. But here, Harry has the upper hand. He knows about the link. This young Tom Riddle has no clue. Why should he? In this time Harry and Voldemort haven't been connected by a killing curse gone wrong yet. There's no reason for any such link to exist. A slow smile spreads across Harry's face. Yes, perhaps this connection will even be his saving grace. After all, what better way to find out where Tom has hidden his diary than to witness Tom pulling it out with his own eyes.

Harry lies back on the bed, blackness already tugging at the corners of his vision as sleep reclaims him.

The next morning Harry wakes to heavy breathing and snoring all around. Distant sunlight filters down through the lake water and in through the room's sole window, but everyone aside from Harry is fast asleep. Apparently Tom's gang has returned from their late night torture session. Harry carefully tiptoes across the room, slowly inching his trunk open so as to not wake anyone. Properly dressed and as groomed as he's going to get, Harry slowly creaks the door to the boy's dormitory open and slips out into the hallway with a sigh.

Harry meanders down the stairs to the Slytherin common room, noting immediately how different the atmosphere in the room is without Tom there. There are only a few people about, a couple of first years sitting and chatting by the fire, and a group of seventh year girls sitting at a deep ebony table, but they all seem so much more relaxed and amiable than when Harry had first been introduced.

"Yoohoo!" a feminine voice calls and Harry's head snaps up. One of the girls sitting around the table is beckoning towards him, inviting him over to join them. Harry hesitates for a moment, then smiles and wanders over.

"You must be the new seventh year," says the girl who had beckoned Harry over. She, Harry notices nervously, is absolutely stunning. Harry's never been particularly comfortable around beautiful women. Cho had made him a stammering mess for months, and she hadn't been half as pretty as this girl. This girl has flawless tan skin, long, dark brown curls, and a very feminine, heart-shaped face with full lips. The slightly smug expression on her face tells Harry that she is quite aware of her own good looks.

"Yeah I am," replies Harry with a polite smile. "I just transferred in."

"Awfully late in your schooling to transfer, isn't it?" asks the girl sitting on the first girl's right. This girl leans back casually in her seat, arms hooked over the back of her chair as she languidly appraises Harry. She has deep, chocolate skin, brown eyes, and black curly hair cut short around her face. She too is quite pretty with full lips and a strong jaw. Her voice is slightly deep for a girl's, but is smooth and calming. Harry finds himself wanting her to speak again.

"Unfortunately the man who was homeschooling me, my god father, passed away a few weeks ago," Harry explains, the lie now familiar on his tongue.

"I'm sorry," says the girl, and she actually seems sincere, her dark eyes sympathetic. "People can get taken from us so suddenly."

"Yeah," agrees the first girl quickly, obviously not interested in that line of conversation. "So what's your name, new boy?"

"Oh, right. Sorry!" says Harry hurriedly. "Harry Potter. Pleased to meet you."

"You too," says the first girl with a charming smile. Harry can feel himself blushing despite himself. Arrogant though she may be, this girl really is beautiful. Especially when she smiles.

"My name's Druella Rosier," the girl continues. "I believe you met my brother Edmund last night."

"Oh right!" exclaims Harry. Now that she's said it he can see the resemblance clear as day. "He seemed nice enough." Druella makes a face, curling her upper lip slightly in disapproval.

"I suppose he's ok," she concedes. Clearly sibling rivalry is alive and well here.

"My name's Immagen Floris" says the second girl, extending a dark hand to shake. Harry smiles, taking the proffered hand gladly. There's something about her laid-back attitude he finds himself instantly liking. Something about her just says: no drama. And that's a quality Harry can appreciate.

"And I'm Marcella Black" pipes up the last girl at the table. This girl appears to have had any good looks sucked out of her and into the other two girls at the table. She has a short, boyish frame, a round face, and small blue eyes. Her looks are not helped by the heaps of makeup she has caked onto her flesh. Marcella flicks a lock of straight black hair over one shoulder, and something about her expression immediately and strongly reminds Harry of a Chihuahua, although he has no idea what.

"Nice to meet you all," says Harry politely. "Seems like we're the only ones up," he continues, gesturing around at the nearly vacant common room. "Everyone in my dorm was still asleep when I left. Do they always sleep this late?"

The girls glance nervously at each other. This simple question, casual though it may be, is stepping onto dangerous territory.

"The boys like to go to bed late on the weekends," says Druella vaguely, forcing her tone to sound casual. "Then they spend half the next day in bed, lazy gits." Marcella titters at this little jibe.

"Oh really?" asks Harry. "What do they do staying up so late?"

"You ask a lot of questions," states Immagen coldly. Her face has hardened, a warning in her eyes, but there's no malice in her voice, only worry. "You shouldn't. You made quite the entrance last night, new boy. Don't pull anything like that again, or I don't know what will happen to you. Really, your best chance is to just skate through this year under the radar. Don't go poking your nose where it doesn't belong. Down here, that'll get your nose cut off."

Marcella and Druella look uncomfortable as Immagen leans forward over the table, bringing her intense gaze closer to Harry's. This warning is as close to kindness as a Slytherin gets down here. Immagen is saying too much, giving too much away, and based on Marcella's and Druella's nervous expressions it could clearly get her into trouble. Harry nods solemnly.

"I'll try," he promises, but he knows as the words come out that they aren't true. There's no hope of flying under the radar anymore. He's already made too much of an impression.

"Well, I'm going to head down and grab some breakfast. You ladies have a good morning," Harry continues cheerily, smiling slightly awkwardly before hurrying across the common room to the entry way. Stones slide out of the way before him, twisting and sinking into themselves to create a narrow walkway. Harry steps out into the dank hallway beyond, shivering slightly as the chill of the dungeons greets him.

"Petrificus Totalus" murmurs a voice close on Harry's left, and instantly Harry's body freezes in mid step. Stiffened muscles clench and Harry topples sideways, unable to catch his fall. His head strikes stone painfully and the room blurs sickeningly. Just before everything goes black Harry catches sight of Tom's smug, pale face smirking down at him.

Yup, definitely too late to just skate by under the radar now.

When Harry wakes he is no longer in the hallway. Instead, his frozen body has been propped up against something hard in the middle of what appears to be a vacant classroom. Desks and chairs lie scattered about the room, arranged in a half circle to face Harry's trapped form. Sitting at these desks and jeering is Voldemort's gang. Not Stoddard, though, Harry notes curiously. He would've thought that Tom would want his biggest man here for this intimidation session, but perhaps this isn't Stoddard's thing. Although perhaps Stoddard is just behind him, outside his field of vision. After all, in his current state, it's not like Harry can turn around and check.

"Well, well, well," drawls Tom, self-satisfaction dripping from his every word. If Harry had been able to move, he would roll his eyes. So melodramatic. But drama is important in a demonstration like this. Tom has to prove to his little gang of cronies that even though Harry caught him off guard the other night, he is the one with the power: he is the one to be feared. Harry is nothing. Harry is weak. This show has to make an impact, not just on Harry, but on everyone else as well.

"Look who's finally woken up," Tom continues, strolling languidly towards Harry. No need to Hurry. It's not like Harry is going anywhere. "You almost slept through all the fun."

Tom is mere inches from Harry now, dark eyes victorious as he examines Harry's immobile features. He could do anything to Harry right now, anything at all and Harry wouldn't be able to do a thing to stop him. Tom pauses for a moment to savor the feeling of complete domination, taking a deep breath as though he could smell Harry's weakness in the air. Tom runs a pale finger down Harry's cheek, pressing hard into the soft flesh. There's no tenderness in the caress. It's just proof that Tom can touch Harry however he pleases, do whatever he wants with him. Harry defies him the only way he can, glaring unblinkingly at Tom. A flash of irritation flickers across Tom's expression, and satisfaction wells up in Harry. This battle of wills isn't over yet. Voldemort may have imprisoned his body, but he can't control Harry's mind. Tom hasn't won. Not yet, anyways.

Tom's finger on Harry's cheek turns, digging his sharp nail into Harry's skin.

"Well now," he whispers harshly, leaning forward so that his lips are almost touching Harry's ear. "What shall we do to you? We could tear your fingernails out one by one. Don't even need magic for that. Lestrange has a pair of pliers. I've found that in this case the muggle way is even more painful. Muggle's are so barbaric, but barbarism lends itself well to this kind of thing. Then we could grow them back and do it all… over… again…" Tom strokes Harry's petrified fingers as he speaks, tracing the tips of each digit with each new word.

"Or perhaps we could turn your stomach inside out." Now Tom runs his hand down Harry's chest, pausing with his palm resting flat across Harry's unmoving stomach. "Have you ever seen what your own intestines look like, Potter? All pink and red and throbbing. It's amazing how long they are too, seems like that much intestine shouldn't fit inside a body, but it does. Why, one could sit there tugging it out inch by painful inch for at least an hour. And, well, putting them back in again, that can take just as long if not longer. After all, sometimes it takes a few times to figure out where everything goes. Sometimes we get a few things… wrong." Tom's fingers curl, his fingertips pressing sharply into the flesh of Harry's stomach. Harry's muscles spasm, longing to be able to move. It's like the most severe case of claustrophobia he's ever felt, only the enclosed space he's trapped in is his own body. He's suddenly horribly aware of his own immobility, his complete inability to protect himself. Tom could sink his fingers right down through Harry's skin and Harry wouldn't be able to do a thing to stop him. Panic hits Harry in a wave, causing his heart to flutter beneath frozen ribs. He's got to get out, got to get free. Now.

"What do you say, boys," calls Tom loudly, stepping back from Harry and sweeping his arms out in a gesture that encompasses all the room's other occupants. After all, this show isn't just for Harry. Everyone must participate in Harry's demise, feel his defeat for themselves.

"Maybe we should make him do it to himself," Tom hisses, raising his wand and pointing it straight between Harry's eyes. "Imperius." Immediately Harry feels a wave of giddy calm rush over him, his brain sinking into a soft, pliable fog. Then the fog fades as Harry's training with Moody in his fourth year kicks in. Harry's head clears, the suggestibility leaving just as quickly as it arrived. Harry makes sure to keep his expression blank though. Can't have Voldemort knowing that Harry can throw off the Imperius curse just yet. This could be his only chance to escape.

"Finite," murmurs Tom, ending Harry's body binding curse. Harry's muscles instantly collapse in on themselves and he almost falls over, but he manages to catch himself at the last minute. Harry forces himself to just stand there, gazing blankly at Tom. Tom's normally handsome face is distorted now, twisted into a maniacal smile of victory. His control of Harry is complete; any competition the other boy may have been has now been eliminated. Now it's time to make Harry pay for so much as daring to defy him.

"Give the boy his wand, Avery," commands Tom, and Avery hurries forward, placing Harry's wand between Harry's limp fingers. "Now, Harry," continues Tom smugly, "go take the pliers from the shelf." Harry's heart starts pounding in his ears as adrenaline courses through his system. His whole body poises for flight. The pliers are right next to the door out to the hallway. This is his chance.

Harry forces himself to walk slowly past all of the eagerly watching Slytherins. He just needs a second to get the door open enough to slip out of, but will he be fast enough? He'll have the element of surprise to help him; no one thinks that he can act of his own free will right now, but will that be enough? He has no choice but to risk it. Harry reaches out slowly for the pliers. Then, his hand jolts suddenly to the left and he flings the door open, taking off at a sprint down the corridor beyond. He hears shocked cries from behind him, but no one gives chase.

It worked. He's free, for now at least.

Tom stares at the open door in amazement, his normally brilliant mind temporarily frozen in confusion. The Potter boy had managed to throw off his Imperius curse. No one had ever done that before. Desire coils in Tom's stomach: a lust not for Harry himself, but for Harry's defeat. In that moment Tom wants nothing more than to see Harry begging, naked at his feet: humiliated and vulnerable and wanting, so desirous of Tom that he can't think straight. After all, there's more than one kind of power to be had over another person. Fear is one kind. Lust is another. And apparently fear hadn't worked on Harry. The boy had still managed to best him and slip away unharmed.

Time to change tactics.

*Author's Note: And the games begin! I hope that you enjoyed this chapter! I'm sorry if the mentions of torture upset anyone, that was not my intention. The next chapter will have some more juicy M rated content, so you guys have that to look forward to. ;) Please review with any comments or requests for the story, and thank you for reading!*


	4. Chapter 4

The Dark Tide's Pull Ch. 4

*Author's Note: Thank you so so much to everyone who has reviewed this story! Your feedback is much appreciated! I also want to thank everyone once again for following along with the story chapter by chapter. I hope you enjoy this latest installment!*

"The suspense is terrible. I hope it will last."  
― Oscar Wilde

Early morning light only just begins to filter down through the dark green leaves of the Forbidden Forest, bathing Tom's pale form in a faint speckling of light. He sits on the dark line of a fallen tree trunk, his ankles crossed and his elbows resting on his folded knees. Before him, nothing more than shadows in the pale light, skeletal forms gnaw on a slab of dripping red meat. As the sunlight grows stronger, the figures become more and more visible. At first glance, the creatures just look like starved horses: as though someone had drained a horse of everything but its bones and skin. But their faces are reptilian, with slitted nostrils and almost snakelike features. Huge, bat-like wings protrude from the creatures' backs, coated with the same taut, leathery skin as the rest of their bodies. As the faint light catches the creatures' eyes, one can see that they have no pupils: their eyes are just milky white, like the eyes of the dead. Fitting, considering their reputation.

Tom has always been rather fascinated with the Hogwarts' thestrals. Until the beginning of last year Tom had just thought that the Hogwarts' carriages drew themselves up to the castle. Then, suddenly, at the start of his sixth year, all of these skeleton-like creatures had appeared at the head of each carriage. None of Tom's group had been able to see them, though. They all just gave Tom confused looks, staring at the creatures as though they were just empty air. Tom had immediately charmed their identity out of the Care of Magical Creature's teacher, saying that a first year student had asked him what the creatures were. Professor Twimbley had explained that the beings were thestrals. He had gone on to describe how thestrals were considered to be bad omens since only those who had seen death firsthand could see them. He had hastily reassured Tom that the Hogwarts thestrals were perfectly harmless, though.

Ever since then, Tom has found himself drawn to the thestrals. It's easy to summon them; all he needs is some raw meet. The blood draws them in, and as long as there's still raw flesh to eat, they'll stick around and let Tom watch them as long as he likes. Whereas others find the thestrals' connection with death creepy, Tom finds it fascinating. There's also something nice about knowing that only he can see them. It's yet another thing, like being a parselmouth, that sets Tom apart from others, that makes him special. He likes seeing proof that he's different: better than other wizards.

Tom knows why other people fear death. After all, although he will never admit it to anyone, he fears death more than anything. Perhaps that's why he's always been so fascinated by it. To end, to simply cease to exist: surely there is nothing worse. No matter how powerful one is, no matter how great one's deeds, death doesn't care. Death is an equalizer, taking everyone just the same. But Tom is not the same as everyone else. He isn't equal; he's better.

Death will not take him now, though. He's made sure of that.

Tom caresses the gaudy ring wrapped around his bony finger. The ring is a simple gold band set with a large black stone. Etched into that stone is the Peverell coat of arms: a triangle inset with a circle and a line down the middle. Tom had tugged this ring from the limp finger of an unconscious Morfin Gaunt: the deranged fool. Years of inbreeding had curdled the man's mind, reducing him to a raving mess. The oaf hadn't been worthy of bearing the ring. Morfin may be a pureblood, but he isn't half the wizard Tom is. Just how easy it had been to defeat him proves that. The madman's only redeeming quality is that he could take the blame for the murder of the Riddles instead of Tom.

One of the thestrals wanders silently over to Voldemort, nuzzling his robes where blood from the meat he'd carried stains them. Tom slowly reaches out, running his fingers over the creature's leathery skin. The Riddle's deaths are the only reason he can see these animals at all. He still remembers their shocked faces. They had been so high and mighty, up on that hill in their huge mansion of a home. They acted like they were so special, like they were so much better than everyone else, but they were nothing but filthy muggles. They had no right to think so highly of themselves. They were nothing; just scum not fit to lick the bottom of his boots. Their vast amounts of money had done nothing to save them as Voldemort's killing curses struck their bodies. They had died without having enough time to say so much as a word. Voldemort had studied their bodies for a minute, wondering how it was that he could have come from such low, such ordinary people. Looking at his father's face, though, he had seen what Morfin had pointed out: he did look like his father. The same straight, narrow nose. The same sharp jaw. The same chiseled cheekbones that had so attracted Merope Gaunt. Sickened, he had fled.

Even after he's killed them, though, the Riddle's lives still taint Tom. No matter what he does, his blood still binds him to them. His very genes betray him, connecting him with such ordinary, unspecial people. His body is a traitor, sullied forever by its heritage. It's enough to make Tom want to sink his fingers into his skin, find the half of his DNA that belongs to those filthy muggles and dig it out. Voldemort is destined to be special, to do things that no other wizard has done. He's known it since the very first time he used magic, down in that dank, reeking pit of life called an orphanage. But his past is holding him down. Even his very name ties him to it. He must leave them behind. Soon, he will graduate, and then he'll be able to start using his chosen name. Not yet, though. He is not strong enough yet to reveal himself like that, but soon. He just has to be a little more patient.

White, marble-like eyes stare unblinkingly up at Tom as the thestral appraises him. The blood is now gone from his robes and he no longer holds any interest for the creature. The thestral turns and leaves. Back up at the castle, bodies stir as students begin to wake up. It's the first day of classes of the new year.

The great hall is beginning to fill up as people trickle down for breakfast. Harry's instincts begin to pull his feet towards Gryffindor table, but he catches himself, turning himself towards the sea of green and silver instead. Immagen, Druella, and Marcella are sitting together at the end of the table, and Harry pauses before heading over to join them.

"Morning, new boy," greets Immagen as he slides onto the bench next to her. "Looks like you made it through the night." Her smile is warm, and despite her flippant tone, she really does seem relieved that he's ok. Harry jokingly pats himself down, pretending to check that he really is all still there.

"Yeah," he says, "seems like all of me made it." Immagen smiles, and Druella and Marcella titter.

"Lucky you," comments Druella with a smirk. Harry looks over at her and his stomach curls in on itself. He's still not used to talking to such a pretty girl.

"I have always been pretty lucky," he manages to spit out. Druella's smirk deepens, aware of the effect she's having on him.

"Good morning, Potter," says a distinctly male voice as a hand heartily slaps Harry's back. Harry startles, his hand going for his wand as he turns around to see Edmund Rosier and Jonathon Nott standing behind him.

"No need for that, Potter," comments Jonathon, seeing Harry's hand curled tightly around his wand. "The dogs have been called off. It seems you've managed to impress him." Jonathon doesn't need to say who "him" is. Clearly he's reluctant to mention Tom's name in connection to anything unseemly out here in the public setting of the Great Hall. Even with only Slytherins in the near vicinity it's too risky.

"So we're here to apologize, extend the hand of friendship and all that," declares Edmund cheerfully. "Budge over, Immagen. Make a little room, won't you?" He places a hand on Immagen's shoulder, gently pushing at her so that she'll move. Immagen turns around slowly, dark eyes staring menacingly up at Edmund. Edmund freezes, his hand jerking away from Immagen's shoulder as though burnt.

"Right, well," he says slowly. "I'll just sit on Potter's other side then." Edmund gingerly lowers himself next to Harry, leaving Jonathon to walk all the way around the edge of the table to sit next to Druella. Druella doesn't look particularly pleased with this arrangement, eyeing Jonathon with disapproval as he takes his seat.

"Pass the marmalade, won't you, Potter?" asks Edmund casually, as though he hadn't been cheering for Harry's pain last night. Harry just gives him a disbelieving look. If Edmund thinks that Harry's going to up and forgive him just like that, he's got another thing coming. Seeing Harry's expression, Edmund sighs, his cheerful smile dropping.

"Look, Potter. We're sorry, ok? We were just following orders. But orders have changed now. You're in the clear, and that means that we can be friends now, alright. Can't we just put this behind us? It's just silly kid stuff, just playing around." Harry doesn't believe Edmund for a second. He had seen the malicious glint in Edmund's eyes last night as he was held immobile and helpless for their amusement. He had been enjoying Harry's pain and humiliation just like everyone else, and orders can't make someone get pleasure from hurting someone. Harry sees no reason not to play nice for the time being, though.

"Right," Harry says, plastering a smile onto his face and sliding the marmalade jar across the table. "All just fun and games. Nothing to forgive, really." Edmund smiles back, looking relieved.

"Exactly; just fun and games. Nothing serious," he agrees hurriedly.

A shadow falls over the table as a sleepy Sean Mulciber sits down next to Jonathon. Then, the table is completely eclipsed in darkness.

"Sit here, Drew," exclaims Immagen, sliding over to make room for Drew Stoddard to sit down between Harry and her. It takes quite a lot of sliding to make enough room.

"Oh, I see how it is…" grumbles Edmund as Drew takes his seat. "You'll scoot for over for him, but not me…"

"That's exactly how it is," snaps Immagen coldly.

"Good morning, everyone," says Drew quietly. His voice is deep and gravely, but soft. Not the voice of someone who likes to talk a lot.

"Good morning," replies Harry. If Immagen approves of this guy, then that's good enough for him. And it's not like Drew was one of the people torturing him. As far as Harry knows, Drew's hands are clean in this whole business. The man mountain glances down at Harry, smiling warmly before turning his attention to getting food. Harry suddenly can't help but feel very, very small.

"So what's your first class, Harry?" asks Jonathon politely. Harry pulls a crumpled bit of paper from the pocket of his robes, squinting down at its creased surface.

"Looks like I have Defense Against the Dark Arts first," he says.

"Oh, hey! We have that too!" exclaims Edmund through a mouthful of chicken-apple sausage. "Don't we, Jon?" Jonathon nods.

"I think Riddle's in that class as well," Jonathon adds.

"You'll like Professor Scause, Harry," comments Immagen. "She's really into actually doing magic instead of just book learning."

"That's true," agrees Druella. "Her classes are never boring."

"And we can show you where it is," adds Edmund.

"Great," mutters Harry. "Lucky me."

Edmund and Jonathon insist on sitting on either side of Harry during class, still apparently intent on making Harry feel welcome to the group now. The Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom looks much the same here as it does during Harry's time. A heavy, iron chandelier hangs from the ceiling, bathing the room in flickering candle light. Hanging next to the chandelier and dwarfing it in size is the ginormous skeleton of some long dead dragon. The way the chandelier is placed in front of the dragon's skull makes it look eerily like the dragon is still breathing fire, even in death. The only thing that's different about the room is a raised platform at the end of the classroom where the projector screen usually sits.

"Come on, Potter," says Edmund, tugging at Harry's sleeve. "Let's sit up here." Reluctantly, Harry allows himself to be dragged along to the second row of desks and positioned between the two Slytherin boys. Parchment rustles and pens roll as they get settled. Slowly, the room begins to fill, both other Slytherins and Ravenclaws taking their seats and issuing brief greetings to one another.

"Good morning, Potter," someone breathes in Harry's ear, and his skin erupts into goose bumps. Harry knows that voice. Harry swivels around in his seat, draping an arm over the back of his chair.

"Well, look who's here. You sleep well, Tom?" Harry asks, knowing how the name bothers the other boy. Anger at Harry's familiar tone flashes in Tom's deep eyes and his sharp jaw clenches. He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off as the door to the classroom bursts open once more. This time it isn't just another Slytherin or Ravenclaw hustling to their seat. A woman of around fifty year of age strides confidently down the aisle of desks, nodding politely to students as she passes. She's tall and wiry, with a boyishly straight frame and narrow hips. She wears no makeup on her faintly lined face, and her long, grey hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail. As soon as she reaches the front of the room she flicks her wand and a line of thin, glowing writing spells out the words: "Professor Romilda Scause".

Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts," says the woman. "You can call me Professor Romilda Scause, for those of you who may not know." Her eyes flicker to Harry. "Now, I know that usually teachers start by giving a brief overview of the syllabus and their own personal class rules, but to be honest I've never had much patience for that kind of thing. No, I think the best way for us to start is by seeing where each of you are. Besides, I've always found dueling much more entertaining than lectures, don't you agree?" At this several members of the class whoop and applaud. Edmund pumps a victorious fist into the air next to Harry, and Harry finds himself grinning despite himself. Immagen was right: he is going to like this teacher.

"Now then," continues Professor Scause, "let's just get right to it then, shall we? Any volunteers to go first?" Immediately almost all of the Ravenclaws' hands shoot into the air, and Harry is immediately reminded of Hermione. Tom's voice cuts over them, though.

"I think my friend Potter here would like to go first, Professor," he calls. Professor Scause's face softens as she turns to look at Tom, obviously fond of the boy. Harry's heart sinks.

"You must be the transfer student I was told about," says Professor Scause with a polite smile. Harry quickly nods.

"Yes, ma'am," he replies.

"Well then, Mr. Potter, why don't we see what you can do. You can duel with, um, how about Mr. Gueraine over there." One of the Ravenclaw boys lowers his waving hand smugly and gets to his feet, walking excitedly to the front of the room. Harry hurries to follow.

"Now then," instructs Professor Scause, "one of you at each end of the platform. You know the drill. Bow, that's right. Now, on the count of three." Harry poses himself in the traditional dueling stance, his wand raised before his face and his other hand behind him. On the other side of the platform, Gueraine does the same, staring intently at Harry.

"One, two, three!"

On three both boys leap into motion, wands swishing audibly through the air. Gueraine isn't quite fast enough, though. Within an instant, Gueraine's wand is spinning away across the floor. Both boys just stand there awkwardly for a moment, then a few students lightly applaud.

"Right," says Professor Scause, sounding slightly taken aback. "Well, good job both of you. A simple disarming spell can be quite effective. Shall we match you with someone else then, Potter? Any volunteers?" Gueraine grumpily hops from the dueling platform, giving Harry a reproachful look as he goes to collect his wand from the corner it's rolled into.

"I'll do it, Professor," calls a polite voice and Harry's stomach drops. Professor Scause, on the other hand, looks delighted.

"Excellent, Mr. Riddle," she exclaims. "I'm sure you'll be an excellent challenge for Mr. Potter here." Tom rises from his seat, striding confidently up between the rows of desks. Harry can hear his heart pounding in his ears, can feel his breath quickening in his lungs as adrenaline pumps through his veins. This is it. He knew as soon as Tom volunteered him that this was coming. Tom gracefully glides up the steps to the dueling platform, his slim wand already in his hand. Two phoenix feather wands rise into the air and hold, ready to strike. Dark brown eyes and emerald green ones stare intently at each other, each trying to determine the other's next move. Harry's muscles tense, ready to spring out of the way of the curses that are about to barrage him at any second. Can he do this? He has been able to hold his own against the fully grown Voldemort before, but surviving is very different than beating. This Tom is only seventeen, though, and not fully grown into his full power and potential. There is a chance. If he's careful, there is a chance.

"One, two, three!"

Sibling wands shoot down to face each other and multi-colored jets of light spew forth as they each silently casts their charms. Harry dives to the side, narrowly avoiding Tom's curse as Tom blocks his spell with a shield charm. In seconds both are casting again. Beams of light ricochet around the classroom, forcing several of the students in the audience to have to hastily throw up shield charms of their own. Tom's dark eyes are calculating as they watch Harry duck and weave. The boy is fast, his instincts good. But that's all it is: instincts. There are no long term plans there, only immediate reactions. Tom, on the other hand is slowly planning his opening. As he watches Harry move, he begins to learn how the boy will react. Those reactions can then be predicted and taken advantage of later. Then, Tom puts his plan into action, or, he's about to put his plan into action when the other boy vanishes, casting a disillusionment charm on himself. Unexpected. Tom squints slightly, temporarily taken aback.

"Homenum Revelio" he murmurs, and immediately Harry's invisible form glows blue. In that instant of casting the spell, though, he is neither attacking nor defending himself, and that instant is all that Harry needs. Harry's invisibility may have been compromised, but that doesn't matter as his silently cast expelliarmus hits Tom straight in the chest, sending his wand flying right into Harry's outstretched fist.

For a moment, the room is silent, then everyone breaks out in applause. After all, it was a good show. Harry barely hears them, though. His heart is still pounding in his throat as he stares at Voldemort's wand in his hand in disbelief. He'd actually done it. He'd really, actually done it. Sure, that little trick will never work on Tom again, but at the moment that doesn't matter. He had actually managed to best Lord Voldemort in a duel. Sure, it's only a seventeen year old still developing Lord Voldemort, but still. There's hope.

"Well met, boys, well met!" exclaims Professor Strause, clapping vigorously. "That was an excellent match! One of the better ones I've seen here in my time teaching. Well done indeed!" Nervously, Harry glances up at Tom, expecting to see raw fury etched across the other boy's handsome features, but instead Tom is smiling politely at him. Of course, too many people about. Can't have them seeing the real him. Here, Tom has a public face to maintain. Here, he is just the mild-mannered Head Boy: brilliant, but not power hungry. Tom the prefect knows how to lose graciously. If only Lord Voldemort shared Tom the prefect's mild temperament.

Tom walks calmly towards Harry, his hand extended to shake. Apprehensively, Harry transfers both wands into one hand and takes the other boy's proffered digits, squeezing them gently. Instantly, Harry's scar flares to life, pain shooting through his forehead like a knife. There isn't a single sign of anger on the prefect's face, but Harry can feel the other boy's fury coursing through him.

"Good match, Potter," Tom says mildly, a small smile still lingering on his lips.

"You too," Harry replies quietly, resisting the urge to snatch his hand away from Tom and clutch his head in agony.

"We should duel again sometime," continues Tom, still calm, still polite. Harry recognizes the carefully veiled threat, though. Tom may have to keep up his façade here, but once they're back in Slytherin territory and Tom's perfect, Head Boy mask can drop, there's going to be hell to pay for this little stunt.

Harry may have won the duel, but this fight is not over, not by a long shot.

*Author's Note: Well, Harry's really done it this time. Who knows how long his luck can keep going like this before it runs out? I hope you guys liked this most recent chapter. Please review with any feedback you may have, and don't worry, I plan to keep the fast updates going. I had planned to put a little more fun M rated content into this chapter, but as it turned out, that will have to be in the next chapter. So you guys have that to look forward to. Thanks for reading!*


	5. Chapter 5

The Dark Tide's Pull Ch. 5

*Author's Note: Another super speedy update for you guys! Thank you again to everyone who has left such encouraging reviews! I'm so glad you're all liking the story! I especially want to thank those of you who have been diligently reviewing every chapter. I really appreciate hearing your thoughts as the story progresses. I hope you all enjoy this latest installment!*

"Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power."  
― Oscar Wilde

It takes Harry a while to fall asleep. Even though he's cast every defensive spell he can think of around his bed, the memory of Voldemort's fury keeps his heart racing. Surely he's not going to get away with beating the Dark Lord in front of everyone like that. Every little creak of the castle settling is Voldemort's gang coming to get him. Every sneeze from his dorm mates is a cruciatus curse speeding his way. Adrenaline pumps through Harry's veins with each hurried heartbeat, keeping him awake and alert and ready for danger. His body is ready to either fight or flee, but all Harry's mind wants to do is sleep. Eventually, though, sheer exhaustion finally overtakes Harry, sending him reluctantly off into a restless slumber.

_You're in an empty classroom. All around you, darkness clings. The stone of the wall is cold as it presses against your bare back, but you barely notice the mild discomfort. A boy kneels in front of you, tanner than you but still pale against the night's shadows. You clench his blond hair in your fist, tugging on it hard enough to hurt, but the boy doesn't seem to mind. Blue eyes gaze up at you adoringly, clouded with desire. You feel a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. This boy is completely at your mercy, will do anything you say. Not that he ever wouldn't. Avery knows better than that by now. He knows who his real master is._

_ You run a slender finger down Avery's taut cheek, almost tenderly, then strike him across the face. Hard. It's a balance: punishment and reward. People are willing to put up with so much pain and fear if they want the reward enough, and Avery wants it. Blue eyes water in pain, but his pupils are still dilated with lust. _

_ You tighten the hand in Avery's hair, tugging the boy's head closer to your crotch, shoving his full lips against your hardening cock. Avery groans, reaching up to stroke your penis to full hardness through the thin fabric of your boxers. Fingers fumble desperately at your waistband, tugging your cock free of its confines. Then warm, wet heat engulfs you._

_ It always amuses you to see such a proud boy on his knees for you like this. It's interesting how quickly such arrogant people will bow down and submit. For a group that's so high and mighty, pure bloods are so ready to give up their power to you. Although, it does make some sense. They are giving up power to one man in order to gain power over everyone else: sacrificing something small to gain something so much larger. Still, though, it's entertaining how quickly these arrogant pure bloods fall to their knees and say "lord". Their greed for power is stronger than even their massive amounts of pride._

_ "Faster," you demand, digging your fingernails painfully into Avery's unblemished skin. Avery immediately complies, his tongue swirling enthusiastically around the head of your cock. People like commands, like being told what to do. Having other people make the decisions for you is comforting. All you have to do is obey. You don't have to worry about what you're going to do next, or whether you have a purpose. Someone else has taken charge of those issues. It's a relief: a relief you're happy to oblige them with._

_ Your stomach tightens, a powerful force coiling deep within you. Quickly you tug Avery off your prick. That must be saved for later. You drag Avery to his feet, pushing him backwards until his bare butt smacks into the nearest desk. _

_ "Bend over it," you order, your voice low and rich and smooth: the same voice you use when charming your professors. Desire floods Avery's gaunt face, an expression you've become quite familiar with by now. You know that you're quite handsome. It's a trait you've used to your advantage many times. People are so shallow, so quick to judge based on outward appearance. You're happy to use that, though. If people want to be taken in by your pretty face, let them. You'll use any leverage you can get._

_ Avery quickly swivels around, turning his back to you and bending forward so that his chest is lying flat across the desk's hard surface. You come up behind him, caressing his exposed butt cheek once before letting your finger slip lower. Your pale finger circles his puckered entrance once, then you point your wand at the rosy opening. A jet of silver light sinks into Avery's flesh, and the other boy gasps at the rather unpleasant feeling of the magic stretching and lubricating him. Goosebumps erupt across the other boy's exposed skin. Toes curl, fingers clench, and you push yourself inside him easily. You can feel his muscles throbbing around you, clenching and relaxing as they adjust to the intrusion. You don't give him long to adjust, though. You draw your hips back, pulling out of him almost all the way, then slam back home. It's fast and hard: no tenderness here. This is not a place for emotions._

_You lean forward slightly, pressing your fingertips lightly into the skin of Avery's upper back. Then, suddenly, you slash downwards, sharp fingernails rending pale flesh. Avery cries out, his body tensing slightly, but you ignore him. You know he'll put up with whatever pain you deem necessary so long as you'll just keep fucking him, keep hitting that little spot inside him that has him seeing stars. You admire the long red lines segmenting the other boy's perfect skin. The scratches aren't deep enough to draw blood, but they are raised and enflamed: beautiful. _

_The pressure coiling in the pit of your stomach is back, tightening with each thrust of your slim hips. Your lips part, held open in a silent gasp as your usually controlled expression slips. Muscles clench around your engorged cock, squeezing the overly-sensitized flesh and you're about to-_

Harry wakes up with a jolt, green eyes flashing open in the dark. His heart is pounding in his chest, his muscles tense. He also has a raging hard on. Harry groans, rolling over onto his side in bed and willing his body to calm down. Another vision of Tom's doings. If only what Tom had been doing hadn't been Avery. That's a little tidbit of information Harry could live without. Harry had always just kind of assumed that Voldemort wasn't interested in sex. He certainly hasn't ever had any dreams about Voldemort having sex before. Harry glances down at his still semi-hard cock. Traitor. He refuses to deal with it. He would rather just lie here and deal with the discomfort than have to live with the knowledge that he jerked off to a vision of Tom. No way.

As Harry lies there in the darkness of the Slytherin dormitory, listening to the faint sounds of his roommates breathing and trying to ignore his slowly fading erection, a cold, thin feeling creeps up in his chest. He's homesick. He misses Gryffindor Tower and Ron's robust snores. He misses feeling safe and loved and surrounded by friends. Right now he even misses the ugly, reptilian, older Voldemort. At least that Voldemort was celibate, and therefore much less complicated.

A sudden determination takes hold of Harry, causing him to throw back his blankets and get to his feet. He must try harder to find Tom's bloody diary and get the fuck out of this crazy, messed up time period. He needs to get back to his friends, back to his own time. The logical place to start looking for the diary is the Chamber of Secrets, and as far as Harry can tell, now is the perfect time to go scope it out. After all, going by Harry's dream, Tom is rather, um, occupied at the moment, and therefore unlikely to catch him.

Harry tiptoes across the dorm room, slowly inching the door open as quietly as possible so as not to wake anyone. The door closes with a soft click behind him, and he's off down the stairs. Harry's newfound purpose quickens his steps, propelling him swiftly through the dark common room and out into the rest of the castle. Harry is almost out of the dungeons when he hears voices in the corridor ahead of him.

"Come on, Immagen," says a deep, gravelly voice. "Don't be like this."

"Like this? You mean saying no? No way asshole, now if you don't get the fuck away from me right now, I'm going to curse you until your fat, ugly face is completely unrecognizable!" Harry recognizes this voice as belonging to Immagen. A second later, Harry hears a loud thud from up ahead and what sounds like a muffled scream. Immediately Harry takes off down the corridor, wand raised and ready to attack as he careens around the corner. Immagen is pinned against the cold, stone wall, feet dangling in the air and kicking wildly, but to no avail. Mulciber's thick, meaty hand is closed around her neck. Immagen gasps for breath, fingers clawing at Mulciber's fist around her throat. Mulciber's round face looks furious, his skin flushed red with anger and his dark eyebrows drawn together into a deep scowl.

"Let her go, Mulciber!" calls Harry, wand pointed straight at Mulciber's massive chest. Mulciber turns, looking at Harry over his shoulder.

"Oh, yeah?" he retorts, his lip curling unpleasantly. "What's a pipsqueak like you going to do about it?" A second later Harry's stunner catches Mulciber in the chest, knocking him to the floor in an unconscious heap. Immagen crumples to the ground beside him, clutching her bruised neck and gasping in huge lungfulls of air. Slowly, her blue-tinged lips begin to return to a more healthy color.

"Are you alright?" asks Harry, rushing forward to help Immagen to her feet. He can feel her shaking slightly still beneath his grasp.

"I'll be ok," replies Immagen slowly, her voice raspy from being choked.

"We ought to get you up to the hospital wing," Harry suggests, looking worriedly at the massive bruises beginning to blossom on Immagen's dark neck.

"No," says Immagen, shaking her head. "I really just want to go to bed. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? That bruise looks pretty nasty," pushes Harry. Immagen does not look well at all. Her skin is looking sickly pale, and her breathing is still shallow and ragged. Who knows what damage lack of oxygen did.

"Really, Potter," states Immagen firmly, shrugging Harry's hands off her shoulders and stepping back from him. "I just want to go to sleep."

"Well, I guess if you're sure," Harry relents reluctantly. Already Immagen is starting off back towards the Slytherin common room. She pauses after a couple of steps, though, turning back to give Harry a sad, studying look.

"Thanks, Potter," she whispers softly, her voice quavering as though she's on the edge of tears. "You're a rubbish Slytherin, you know that? Mulciber will have your head for this."

"He can try," replies Harry cavalierly. "Maybe you're a rubbish Slytherin too, though, for caring what Mulciber does to me."

"No," murmurs Immagen, shaking her head sadly. "If I wasn't cut out for Slytherin then I would have stopped what Riddle's been doing to the students here a long time ago." For a moment, Immagen just stares down at the stone floor, eyes unfocused, mind elsewhere. Then she shakes herself, visibly focusing her thoughts back on the present. Quickly, she turns from Harry once more, taking off towards the Slytherin common room without another word. Harry watches her go with a worried frown, but Immagen clearly just wants to be left alone right now.

Harry turns to Mulciber's large, unconscious form, eyeing it distastefully. What a pig. Harry just leaves him there, vulnerable and unaware. Maybe Mulciber will end up getting in trouble for being caught out of bed after hours. It would serve him right.

The castle is silent all around Harry as he makes his way through the maze of empty corridors and moving staircases to the girls' bathroom on the second floor. It's as though the very walls of Hogwarts are as asleep as its students. Harry carefully pushes open the door to the girls' lavatory, peering cautiously around the door to check that the room is empty before slipping in. Not even Moaning Myrtle is in here. Harry suspects that she's off haunting that girl who used to pick on her.

The bathroom looks just as it does during Harry's time. A row of bathroom stalls extends off to the left, the U-bends of which Myrtle typically likes to rest in. Standing right in front of Harry is a round basin of sinks, each protruding from an elaborately carved stone centerpiece. Two thin marble columns stand on either side of each sink, framing small, individually sized mirrors. Harry's own solemn face stares back at him from one of these mirrors, identical pairs of green eyes examining each other absently. Harry slowly circles the cluster of sinks until he reaches the broken tap with a carving of a snake etched into the stone beside it.

Here, Harry pauses, taking a deep, shuddering breath as he braces himself. Then, he stares intently at the carved serpent, imagining it to be real. In Harry's mind's eye, stone melts into silver, shimmering scales. Stone eyes blink and turn yellow, a forked tongue flickers from a now mobile mouth.

"_Open_" hisses Harry, the ancient language of the snakes dripping from his tongue with ease. For a second, nothing happens. Then the stone of the sinks creaks and groans as it melts into the ground, leaving a large, dark hole in its wake.

Harry's slender fingers tighten around his wand, gaining comfort from this small sense of security. Then feet step out into empty air, and Harry is falling down into blackness.

The chamber entrance closes behind him, leaving him to the darkness of Slytherin's lair.

*Author's Note: And down Harry goes! I hope you all have enjoyed this most recent chapter. Please comment with any feedback or comments you may have. Also, remember that I am happy to keep in mind any requests for this story that you may have. I should be posting the next chapter either tomorrow or the day after, so you won't have to wait too long to see what happens next. Thank you all so much for reading! Also, to the guest reviewer FanFiction Lover who diligently capitalizes all his/her reviews: I think that getting to torment Harry with a sex dream should count as one point for Tom, don't you think? ;)*


	6. Chapter 6

The Dark Tide's Pull Ch. 6

*Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who's still reading and reviewing! I'm so glad you guys are following along with the story, and I really appreciate hearing from you all! Here's Chapter six! Enjoy!*

"Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives."  
― Oscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_

For a moment, Harry is just suspended in open air. He's floating, he's free, supported by nothing but momentum and empty space. Then gravity remembers its job and he's falling down into darkness. The smooth edge of the pipe catches his plummeting form, directing him into a more gradual slope downwards. It doesn't slow him enough to make his eventual landing graceful, though. Harry comes flying out of the bottom of the pipe, landing with a loud thud and skidding painfully across the hard stone floor.

Harry groans, getting gingerly to his feet and dusting off his now filthy robes. All around him darkness watches, taken aback at this sudden intruder.

"Lumos," murmurs Harry, and the tip of his wand bursts into light, cutting a circle of visibility out of the blackness. The air down here feels stale, as though it hasn't been disturbed in years and has settled down to make permanent residence. Harry's own breathing suddenly sounds horribly loud in his ears: the only source of noise or movement in this whole cavern. Harry takes a careful step forward and the accompanying sound echoes off of unseen stone walls. As Harry walks down the corridor, a sudden feeling of loneliness overcomes him. Down here, in this dead maze of dungeon-like passages he suddenly feels very small, very alone. He's the only life form down here, aside from some hibernating Basilisk; the only living, breathing being. It's an eerie feeling.

Despite Harry's distracted mind, his feet know where to go, and soon he's facing a pair of massive, iron doors. Two entwined carvings of snakes gaze down curiously at Harry.

"_Open_," Harry commands in Parseltongue. The two carved snakes creak into motion at Harry's order, separating their interlaced forms so that the doors can split down the middle. Deja vu washes over Harry as the huge, iron doors slowly swing open. For an instant Harry is back in his second year, heart pounding in his chest as Ginny's prone form catches his gaze and holds it. Then Harry snaps back to the present and Ginny is gone. The chamber is empty.

Row upon row of stone snake heads stare unblinkingly at Harry as he walks across the echoing chamber. Straight in front of him, Salazar Slytherin's statue looms over the room. Slytherin's representation is at least two stories tall, his figure impossibly tall and slender. The statue's frozen expression is permanently smug, proud of the malevolence this chamber represents. Harry examines the statue carefully, aware that just underneath its stone skin the Basilisk lies in magical hibernation. The massive serpent doesn't seem to sense Harry's proximity, though. It just sleeps on, time slipping over it, leaving it untouched. For as long as the beast sleeps, it is immortal.

At the statue's feet lies a deep pool of water, its surface perfectly still without any breeze down here to disturb it. Harry walks until his toes almost touch the very edge of this pool and gazes down at the mirror-like liquid. Harry remembers the Basilisk bursting from this very pool four years ago, but all Harry sees in the water now is his own solemn reflection.

Now then, Harry wonders, looking around the chamber curiously, where would Tom keep his diary down here? It wouldn't have to be all that hidden. After all, just placing it in this chamber is protection enough. No one knows where the entrance to this chamber is. And even if they did find out, only someone who could speak Parseltongue could get down here. As far as the Tom Riddle of this time knows, only he can speak the language of snakes. Besides, this far back in time no one knows about Tom's horcruxes. No one would have any reason to want to seek out Tom's diary and destroy it. Still, though. The diary could be in any one of the narrow passageways branching off from this main room. It could take forever to find it, and Harry doesn't have forever. He has to hurry; being caught here would be his undoing. It would raise questions that he can't answer.

"Accio Tom Riddle's Diary," calls Harry, raising his wand. He knows that it probably won't work, but it can't hurt to try. To Harry's extreme surprise, there's a loud clunking noise and the little, black diary comes zooming out of the open mouth of one of the snake statues. A second later it lands with a loud thunk at Harry's feet. Harry blinks down at the diary once, then twice, his brain trying to cope with how unexpectedly easy that was. Apparently the Tom Riddle of this time hasn't gone about setting up such stringent protections for his horcruxes yet. This Voldemort hasn't done enough horrible things for people to want to track down all the stray bits of his soul and eliminate them. No need to set up additional wards. Especially since gaining access to this chamber should be impossible to almost everyone, and should function as protection enough. Still, though. Harry hadn't expected it to go so smoothly.

Harry kneels down, caressing the book's dark spine almost reverentially. This far in the past the book hasn't had time to become worn down yet, and its binding is a smooth, shiny black. Not the tattered mess Harry remembers from his second year. Harry reaches into his robes, pulling out a small satchel no bigger than a wallet. Harry opens the bag, reaching into its magically enlarged interior and feeling around for a minute before withdrawing a blackened Basilisk fang. The tooth feels cold and smooth in Harry's palm. Its white surface is stained black from its owners' blood, long since dried. For a moment Harry just stares at the fang, struck by how odd it is that at that moment an exact copy of this fang rests in the mouth of the sleeping Basilisk a few feet away.

Harry grasps the Basilisk fang firmly in his fist, still kneeling, and flips Tom's diary open to a random page. Harry takes a deep breath, holds it, and stabs. Black ink oozes out of the crisp, white parchment like blood, staining the tips of Harry's fingers. Then light bursts from the page, shooting out in sharp, white columns. Quickly Harry shuts the diary and stabs it once more through its dark cover. More light blasts from the book, magic whipping the air around Harry into a strong wind. Behind Harry the pool of water shudders from the disturbance, then blasts up into huge waves that crash over Harry's head. For a moment, the water clings to Harry's face, tightening around his neck as Tom's horcrux tries in its final moments to exact revenge on its killer. Then, the light flowing from the diary suddenly vanishes and the water splashes down to the floor, just water once more. Harry gasps, damp curls sticking to his pale forehead as though glued down. Harry stares down at the now perfectly still diary. Ink stains the stone floor around the small book, and the Basilisk fang protrudes grotesquely from its front cover. Tom's horcrux is gone; that bit of his soul vanished from the world forever.

Harry is one step closer to being able to kill the man who will murder his parents. One step closer to saving the entire magical world.

"Crucio!" calls a harsh voice and Harry's body instantly curls in on itself over the diary, convulsing in pain as the fury and terror of the spell's caster floods through him. Footsteps echo about the chamber as Harry's assailant marches towards him, practically running in his panic. Harry can feel the other boy's emotions flooding into him through his scar, can feel the horrible rage at his soul's destruction and his fear of what Harry has done, what he must know. After all, the Voldemort of this time doesn't have seven horcruxes yet: only the one. And now that one is gone. Tom is vulnerable now, immortal no more and vulnerable. And Harry has already beaten him in a duel once, just by luck, sure, but still beaten him. Tom's insurance for his life is gone, and there's nothing that Tom fears more than death.

"Incarcerous!" shouts Tom and ropes curl themselves around Harry's still shaking form, tightening about his limbs until he has no choice but to fall to the floor, unable to move. Cool fingers curl around Harry's chin, tightening painfully as they tug Harry upright into a kneeling position. Tom's hand stays clamped on Harry's face, forcing him to look up into Tom's furious, brown eyes.

"How did you get down here?" Tom hisses, dark eyes bugging out of his handsome face in rage. His fingers tighten around Harry's chin, sharp nails piercing his soft flesh. "HOW!"

Harry's expression shifts into a determined frown, normally straight, dark brows creasing together and chin jutting out stubbornly.

"_Surely you don't think you're the only one who can talk to snakes, Riddle_," Harry murmurs in Parseltongue, his voice mockingly simpering and sweet. For a moment, fear overtakes the anger on Tom's wan face, full lips parting slightly in a silent gasp. Then, the rage wins out once more.

"So, Potter," snaps Tom. "You're a Parselmouth, too. Bet you think that makes you pretty special."

"I know you certainly think it makes you special," retorts Harry angrily, his rising temper beginning to take over. He won't be lectured on arrogance by the king of self-importance. Even tied down and at Voldemort's mercy, Harry isn't about to just roll over and give in. The right words can hurt just as much as a fist to the face. Based on the way Tom's expression freezes for a moment, lips pursed and jaw tight with outrage, these were the right words.

"Well, let's just see if your little ability to talk to snakes can save you from this," hisses Tom, practically spitting the words at Harry. "Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four!" These words he calls loudly, not just for Harry's ears. Stone creaks and groans behind Harry, and all the blood drains from Harry's face. Harry remembers those words from back in his second year. The Basilisk. Tom is calling forth the Basilisk.

"Locomotor Potter," growls Tom, and Harry rises slowly into the air. Another flick of Tom's wand has Harry spinning around to face Slytherin's statue and his fate. The mouth of Slytherin's statue has already creaked most of the way open. For a moment, the mouth just hangs there, revealing a dark opening. Then, there's movement in the blackness. A flickering forked tongue emerges from the shadowy entryway, tasting the air of the cavern for the first time in a year. Then, a huge, scaly snout meets Harry's vision. Instantly, Harry snaps his eyes shut before the great serpents' yellow eyes can emerge. He doesn't fancy dying like that. Not today at least.

Harry can't see the snake slither fully out of Slytherin's statue, but a loud splash tells Harry that the snake has fallen free and into the pool of water at the statue's base.

"Afraid to open your eyes, Potter?" taunts Tom from above Harry, his voice smug. There's a soft sloshing noise, then Harry can hear the soft scrape of massive scales sliding across the stone floor. "Your little knack for Parseltongue won't save you now," Tom continues, his voice soft and menacing in Harry's ear. Harry can feel the other boy's hot breath across the side of his neck, can practically feel his full lips moving against his skin. "She'll only obey me: Slytherin's true descendant and heir."

"You don't say," mutters Harry under his breath, remembering his younger self being told the exact same thing. Then, suddenly, he feels something rough and slightly damp flicker against his cheek, and he freezes. There's only one thing that something could be, and it does not bode well for Harry's continued survival. The Basilisk's forked tongue ghosts against Harry's warm skin once more, then the beast lets out a low hiss.

"_I smell warmth. I smell blood. I smell fear. Kill? Can we kill it? It's been such a long time since we've felt something crush between our teeth. So long_." Harry tenses up even further, his shoulders thrust back and away from the massive serpent, his spine held almost painfully erect. Behind him, Tom chuckles darkly, enjoying Harry's fear.

"_Not yet_," Tom commands the giant snake, his tone amused. "_He has to answer some questions first_." The Basilisk hisses disappointedly, its cool tongue writhing out to taste Harry's skin one last time almost mournfully. Harry winces at the slick feel of it on his jaw.

"Now then," says Tom, this time in English. "I believe you have some explaining to do, Potter. Answer me quickly and honestly, and perhaps I will let you live." Harry rolls his eyes behind closed lids. There's no way that Tom is letting him out of here alive, not after what Harry has seen, not with what he knows. No, Harry needs to find a way to save himself on his own. What Harry needs is the perfect story. He needs to lie. Unfortunately, for that lie to seem real Harry's going to have to include a few compromisingly important truths. Truths that Harry had never intended to reveal.

"How did you find this place?" Tom asks, his voice hard and cold. This question, Harry thinks with amusement, he can actually answer truthfully.

"I heard that a girl was killed last year by Slytherin's monster," he replies calmly, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths. "Her ghost haunts the school now. Moaning Myrtle everyone calls her. Apparently she haunts the second floor bathroom when she isn't following that girl around who used to bully her: the bathroom she died in." Throughout this Tom remains silent, allowing Harry to continue, apparently accepting his words as truth. For now.

"So I tracked her down," Harry continues, his words speeding up slightly despite himself as he feels the Basilisk's shallow breath on his face. "I asked her about her death, and how exactly it happened. She told me that she saw a great, big pair of yellow eyes over by the sink, the one that's never worked. When I saw the snake carved there I knew that had to be the entrance." Harry stops here, seeing no need to elaborate any further. He doesn't want to give any more information than the bare minimum determined by Tom's question. No need to help the other boy unravel things faster. Tom remains silent for a moment, contemplating what Harry said. Harry wishes that he could see the other boy's expression, begin to work out what the other boy makes of his response. But all Harry can see is the warm glow of light filtering through his thin eyelids.

"Why go to so much effort to find the chamber?" Tom finally asks, his voice slightly calmer than before. Having the Basilisk's fanged mouth mere inches from Harry's face makes Tom feel safer, more in control. "Why come down here at all? Why go seeking the resting place of Slytherin's monster?" Harry just shrugs, a hard movement to pull off with the ropes still binding his limbs in place.

"Curiosity," he replies, trying to sound casual. "I wanted to find what so many others had failed to."

"Crucio," murmurs Tom almost lazily and Harry's nerves light up as though on fire. Pain courses through his bound form, clenching his muscles in on themselves to the point of cramping. White bursts of light flash across the underside of Harry's eyelids, a physical representation of the spikes of pain shooting through him. Then, just as suddenly as it came, the pain stops, leaving Harry's body shuddering in its aftermath.

"Now, now," scolds Tom in an almost sing-song voice. "You're going to have to do better than that. You obviously came down here looking to destroy my diary! Why? How did you even know about it?" And Harry can hear the fear in Tom's voice again, the fear of his horcrux being found out, of his one main strength becoming his weakness. The echoes of pain still vibrate through Harry's body, and his brain doesn't seem to be fully recovered yet, still rattled by the sudden torture. Hands grasp Harry's shoulders, shaking him forcefully.

"WHY DID YOU DESTROY MY DIARY!" Tom screams into Harry's face, fingers gripping Harry's bony shoulders in a vice-like hold. Panic laces Tom's words now, flowing off of him in waves. There's only one explanation for Harry's actions, and both of them know it. Tom just has to hear Harry say it, part of him still hoping that there's another explanation, that his secret hasn't been found out. "WHAT DO YOU KNOW! TELL ME NOW!" Harry tries to think of some other explanation for the fang sticking out of the diary's black binding, but nothing comes to him. Nothing that Tom would believe, anyways.

"Isn't it obvious?" Harry finally says, taunting Tom with his words in a way that he knows is dangerous, but he can't help it. He isn't going to take this lying down. Tom is afraid, mortally afraid of Harry in this moment despite Harry's current threatened state. Harry is going to play on Tom's fear until his last breath. "You really thought you could keep it secret? That no one would find out? You really thought that there wouldn't be consequences to ripping a bit of your soul out and hiding it in a book? You thought that would keep it safe? There's no such thing. No one gets to live forever, Tom. Not even you. And now that bit of you is gone, and you're never going to get it back." For a moment Tom's grip on Harry's shoulders slackens, shock taking hold of the other boy.

"How do you know this?" breathes Tom, then his quietly stunned statement turns into a furious yell that echoes off the cavern walls. "HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY KNOW!"

"It doesn't matter," replies Harry with infuriating calm. "The diary is gone now anyways. It doesn't matter how I know." For a moment, Tom doesn't speak, just breathes heavily as rage bubbles up within him. Harry wishes fervently that he could see Tom's face, see what the other boy is planning, but he doesn't dare open his eyes. Not yet.

"You're right," says Tom softly, in control of himself now despite his ire. "It doesn't matter how you know. Soon, you will be dead, and whatever it is you know will die with you. _Make him hurt, Great Serpent of Slytherin. Kill him slowly. I want to watch him suffer until the very end_." Hard scales scratch against the smooth skin of Harry's back as thick coils wrap around him, tightening painfully about his thin frame. Harry can feel his bones quavering in his body, threatening to break under the pressure. He can practically feel the Basilisk's joy radiating through its form as it begins to constrict Harry, finally allowed to kill once more. He has no other choice.

"No wait!" Harry calls quickly, before the beasts' constricting can take away the last of his breath. "You can't kill me!"

"And why not?" asks Tom with a high, cold laugh, clearly amused to see Harry begging for his life. He's obviously disregarded any reason Harry could possibly offer.

"You can't kill me," Harry says again, gasping out the words between shallow breaths as the Basilisk tightens its muscles around his rib cage even more, "because I'm your horcrux!"

*Author's Note: Aaaaaaaaand a cliffhanger! Sorry guys, I know it's mean, but I couldn't resist. It was just too perfect a way to end the chapter. Well, Harry's secret's out now, but will Tom even believe him? And if he does decide that Harry's telling the truth, how is he going to react? Don't worry, I'll update ASAP so that you guys won't have to wait long to find out. ;) Please review with any feedback you may have; I love hearing from you guys! It really makes my day. :) And thank you all so much for reading!*


	7. Chapter 7

The Dark Tide's Pull Ch. 7

*Author's Note: Hi again, everyone! Sorry about the cliffhanger at the end of the last chapter; I just couldn't resist. ;) I think I made it up to you all by uploading this chapter so fast though, don't you agree? I would once again like to thank everyone so much for continuing to read this story. I'm especially grateful to everyone who sent me such lovely reviews. Enjoy!*

"When people tell a lie about something, they have to make up a bunch of lies to go with the first one. 'Mythomania' is the word for it."  
― Haruki Murakami, _Norwegian Wood_

"_Stop_," commands Tom, a sudden urgency to his voice. Instantly the Basilisk's thick coils freeze around Harry's form, ceasing their steady pulverization of his body. "What did you say?" the pale boy hisses, dark eyes wide as he stares intently at Harry's face, looking for any hint of a lie in his features.

"Part of your soul is inside me," Harry gasps with what little air will fit into his crushed lungs. "I'm your horcrux."

"What on earth are you talking about?" murmurs Tom, frowning down at Harry with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. "How could YOU possibly be my horcrux?"

"Because I'm not from this time," Harry admits solemnly, gingerly cracking his eyes open slightly. When his gaze isn't met with a deadly yellow stare, he allows his eyes to slide completely open. "I came back here from the future. If you'll loosen my limbs a little I can get the bag that's underneath my robes. It has the time turner I used to come back here in it."

"_Release him_," Tom snaps in Parseltongue, curiosity gaining sway over his doubt. Besides, even without the Basilisk coiled around Harry, the boy is still bound by Tom's spelled ropes. The great serpent reluctantly relaxes its coils, slithering back from Harry's relieved figure. Harry gasps in huge lungfulls of air, his ribs aching from being crushed.

"It's in the front of my robes," Harry tells Tom quietly, the ropes wrapped around him preventing him from revealing the evidence himself. Tom takes a cautious step towards Harry, peeling back the boy's Slytherin robes with one hand and tentatively reaching beneath them with the other. A second later, Harry's small leather satchel emerges.

"It's in there," Harry says, nodding at the bag in confirmation. Tom just eyes the bag suspiciously, clearly not trusting Harry enough to just reach in there at his word. Slim wood prods at the bag, Tom casting several spells on the satchel before satisfied that it isn't cursed. Slender fingers reach carefully into the bag's spelled interior, fumbling around for a moment before closing on smooth glass. Tom's hand reemerges from the satchel, clutching the time turner wonderingly in his palm.

"Be careful not to turn it!" warns Harry as Tom studies the small hourglass. Tom just gives him a skeptical look, raising one straight, dark brow ever so slightly. Obviously Tom already knows not to turn it.

"Explain. Now, Potter. And I had better like what you have to say," demands Tom coldly. Deep brown eyes watch Harry closely. Harry definitely has Tom's full attention now. Beneath Harry's blank face, his mind is churning. Obviously he can't tell Tom the truth. No, he needs to play on the obvious assumption that one's horcrux should be loyal to the person whose soul they hold. After all, who in their right mind would make their mortal enemy, the one person destined to kill them or die trying, the keeper of their soul? The Tom of this time knows nothing of the prophecy, knows not that Harry is destined to be his end. No, to this Tom, Harry needs to seem like a horcrux like Nagini: loyal, a friend, chosen because of his close bond with Tom. The trick to this lie would be to keep as much truth in the story as possible. If part of a story is true, finding the falsehoods becomes so much harder. Omission and playing on Tom's natural assumptions: it's the only chance Harry has.

"In the future you succeed in your plan to make seven horcruxes: the most powerfully magical number," Harry starts, knowing that this little tidbit of information should catch Tom's attention right off the bat. After all, based on the memory of Tom's conversation with Professor Slughorn, even now Tom already has making seven horcruxes in mind. It's the perfect way to begin gaining Tom's trust, starting off with a fact that Tom can confirm as true even now. Based on Tom's slightly deepening frown, Harry can tell that his simple statement has hit the mark.

"I was your seventh and last horcrux, made to commemorate a special death. But a little while after you made me your horcrux, someone found out about them. Someone who told others. Someone who set out to destroy them." Tom remains silent, allowing Harry to continue speaking. This alone tells Harry that the other boy finds his story believable, which it should be. After all, everything Harry has said so far is the truth. He's just leaving out a few things like that the special death the seventh horcrux was supposed to commemorate had been his own.

"You upped the defenses around your horcruxes, worried about their safety, but they got to your diary before you could." Now Harry branches off into the lie, careful to keep his face solemn and sincere. "They held the diary, found a way to use the soul trapped within it to affect the rest of you. They used to it gain power over you, holding it hostage until you had no choice but to submit to their demands. Just before you went to give yourself up to them, though, you gave me this time turner. You said that I had to come back here and destroy the diary. Better to lose that part of your soul forever than to have it used against you. I wasn't supposed to tell you any of this. The more I tell you about the future, the more I risk altering your course through it. And I can't risk ruining your rise to power." Harry pauses here, trailing off and trying to sound upset at the prospect of Tom never fully becoming Lord Voldemort. He looks down at the floor, letting Tom interpret this gesture at guilt over failing in his task to not get caught.

"Why should I believe any of this?" demands Tom, his lips pursed skeptically, but he doesn't order the Basilisk to kill him again. He may be skeptical, but clearly not to the point of entirely disbelieving Harry. Harry's story is at least plausible.

"Why do you think it is that I can talk to snakes?" asks Harry, once again using a segment of the truth to bolster his story. "It's an ability I gained from the bit of your soul inside me. When you made me your horcrux, some of your abilities transferred to me as well." Tom's frown relaxes a little at these words, seemingly accepting this evidence. He still isn't completely convinced, though.

"I'll swear to it," Harry says quickly. "I'll swear a magical oath that I'm your horcrux and that you are the reason I came back in time to destroy the diary." At this, a victorious twinkle appears in Tom's eyes. A magical oath would provide irrefutable proof. No one can lie during a magical oath, no one who wants to live anyways.

"Alright," Tom relents, taking a step towards Harry. "Swear it then, and I will spare you."

"You need to release my hands for me to do that," points out Harry. Tom appraises Harry warily for a moment, then flicks his wand. Instantly the bindings around one of Harry's arms falls away. Just one arm though; the other is still held immobile against Harry's side. Carefully Harry reaches up and offers his free hand, his arm muscles groaning after being crushed by the Basilisk at even this small movement. Pallid fingers clasp Harry's palm, and Tom places his wand tip on their conjoined hands. A second later a blue glow engulfs their intertwined limbs, creeping all the way up to Harry's elbow and tingling oddly. Tom just watches Harry, unwilling to say anything while the oath's influence is over them.

"I, Harry James Potter," says Harry slowly, "do swear that I contain part of the soul of Tom Marvolo Riddle inside me, placed inside me by Tom Marvolo Riddle himself. I also swear that Tom Marvolo Riddle is the cause for my time travel back to this era, and for my destruction of the diary of Tom Marvolo Riddle." The blue glow surrounding Harry's forearm pulsates, assessing the truth of Harry's words. Anyone who lies under a magical oath is doomed to die a painful death, their own blood boiling in their veins and their magic steaming from their pores. Nothing happens. The spell has judged Harry's words to be true, as it should, since technically they are. It's not the spell's issue whether Tom interprets those true words correctly or not. Tom Riddle is the reason that Harry decided to go back in time. If Tom hadn't gone around killing everyone Harry loved and massacring mudbloods, Harry never would've come back to 1944. The magical oath doesn't care that, because of Harry's earlier lies, Tom will interpret Harry's true words as meaning that he, Tom, directly sent Harry back into the past by order. The oath wasn't in effect when Harry spun that little tale. For a moment, Tom just stands there, examining Harry's face closely and a thrill of fear stabs through Harry. What if this oath isn't enough? What if Tom demands that Harry swear to even more of his story, parts of the story that he can't swear to and live? But then Tom raises his wands from their clasped hands, ending the oath spell.

"Finite," mutters Tom, flicking his wand lazily at Harry, and the ropes binding Harry in place vanish in a puff of smoke. For a moment Harry just stays kneeling on the hard, stone ground, unsure if the ropes vanishing is permission enough for him to stand. Then he slowly gets to his feet, knees shaking slightly from the after effects of repeated cruciatus curses. Since Harry isn't crucioed again, he presumes that getting up was alright. Tom is just standing there, less than a foot away from Harry, staring intently into the other boy's bright green eyes. Pale fingers reach up to clasp Harry's chin, holding him in place as Tom examines his face, looking perhaps for some trace of his own soul flickering in Harry's eyes. Harry's scar prickles uncomfortably at the contact. Then Tom releases him, turning his back on Harry and beginning to stride away across the chamber.

"_Sleep, great serpent_," Tom calls over his shoulder, his voice echoing off the high stone ceiling. "_It's time for Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four, to be silent once more_." Behind Harry, hard scales scrape audibly against the stone floor as the giant snake slithers back towards its resting place in Slytherin's statue. Harry resists the urge to turn around and watch it go. No point in saving himself with carefully construed lies if he's just going to kill himself over a little curiosity.

"Come," calls Tom over his shoulder again, this time to Harry. Harry quickly jogs to catch up with the other boy. Tom has his wand, and Harry doesn't fancy trying to get out of this chamber without one. Climbing back up that pipe would probably be an impossible task without the aid of magic.

The pair walks silently down the dark corridors of Slytherin's cavern, the orb of Tom's wand-light leading the way. Neither says anything, too lost in their own thoughts. Both are thinking about Harry's story: Tom thinking about how what Harry said affects him, how it completely changes his relationship with the other boy; Harry thinking up new details he may need to add to his lie later if asked. When they finally reach the pipe leading up to the girl's restroom, Tom wraps his arm tightly around Harry's middle. Held in this slightly awkward half-embrace, the pair begin to float upwards through the air, pulled gently along by Tom's wand. Luckily, the bathroom they emerge into is completely empty, devoid even of Moaning Myrtle.

"Come," Tom says again, not bothering to look back at Harry to make sure the other boy is following. Harry's too tired to make a break for it, though, and besides, Tom still has Harry's wand. Resisting the almost overwhelming urge to roll his eyes, Harry trudges along silently after the Head Boy. The pair creeps silently through the dark castle, having to stop once to avoid Peeves drifting by and cackling as he pelts the halls with what appears to be chewed up wads of gum. Finally, after what seems like an eternity of awkward silence, the pair arrives at the Slytherin common room.

"Forked tongue," says Tom to the stone wall. Instantly stones begin to melt into each other, twisting and turning in on themselves to create a passage way. The two glumly follow it into the silver and green room beyond. As Harry's bare toes sink down into one of the thick, emerald carpets, exhaustion suddenly overtakes him. Everything in his body aches down to the marrow of his very bones. Suddenly it's all Harry can do to keep himself upright and moving forward. His muscles ache, almost too tired to support even his own thin frame. It's been a long night, and all Harry wants to do is curl up in his own bed, coat his curtains with as many protection charms as he can think of, and sink into glorious unconsciousness. Tom seems to have something similar in mind as he immediately begins to walk up the stairs towards the boy's dormitory. Seeing as how Tom still has Harry's wand hostage, Harry wearily follows. Half way up the steps Tom stops. They've reached the door to Tom's private rooms, one of the perks of being named Head Boy, and Tom clearly has no intention of going any further. Harry pauses, looking at Tom expectantly. When Tom makes no move to give Harry back his wand, though, Harry just sighs and begins to continue on up the stone steps. Wand or no, Harry is going to bed. At this point he's too tired to care. He'll get the darn thing back from Tom in the morning.

"Where do you think you're going?" asks Tom flatly, and Harry pauses in mid step.

"I'm going to bed," Harry replies grumpily. "Where does it look like I'm going?" Surprisingly, Tom just ignores Harry's rude tone.

"I will not have part of my soul sleeping at the mercy of those goons." Tom doesn't need to specify which goons; it's obvious who he means. Harry resists the urge to point out that those goons are Tom's goons. "You'll be sleeping in my chambers tonight, where I can keep an eye on you."

Harry groans.

"I don't suppose I have a choice, do I?" he asks glumly, too tired to fight back right now.

"No, Potter," replies Tom, clearly amused at Harry's dismay. "You don't."

"Right, fine, whatever," groans Harry, allowing Tom to lead the way into the other boy's private chambers.

"I don't suppose you have couch or something for me to sleep on?" asks Harry, peering around the room curiously. He's never been so tired in his whole life. It's a battle just to keep putting one foot in front of another, and it feels as though his eyelids have developed a magnetic pull towards each other.

"I don't need a couch," replies Tom, his voice still amused. "I have a perfectly good bed. It's big enough. It'll fit us both." Almost any other time, Harry would've chosen to sleep on the floor rather than share a mattress with the dark lord, the man who will one day murder his parents and try to murder him as well. But right now all Harry hears is the beautiful word bed.

"Right, alright then," murmurs Harry sleepily, padding wearily across the room to the massive four poster bed dominating the far wall.

_It's a good thing I'm already in my pajamas_, Harry thinks to himself as he peels back the dark green blankets, revealing crisp, white sheets beneath. Gingerly, Harry slides into the softness of the bed, wincing slightly as the bruises developing all along his body make their positions known. The bed is so soft though, the blankets so thick and plush. The sheets are slightly chilly on Harry's skin, but Harry knows that his body heat will soon fix that slight discomfort. The soft glow of light seeping in through the thin membranes of Harry's eyelids suddenly goes out, leaving him in blackness. Soft, cocooning blackness. Then the bed dips beside Harry as another body crawls into bed beside him. Harry can feel Tom moving around a little, getting comfortable. Then all is still.

Harry can hear the other boy's faint breaths beside him, can feel a slight warmth from Tom's prone form. Silence fills the room, filled with nothing but soft breathing and the gently sloshing noise of the lake water moving just outside the dungeon's sturdy walls. Then the sheets rustle as the body next to Harry flips over to face him in the dark. Harry remains perfectly still, resolutely facing away from the other boy. He may have to share a bed with Tom, but that doesn't mean he has to look at him.

"Why did I pick you?" Tom asks, his voice soft and slightly gravely: a late night voice for secrets whispered in the dark to a friend. Harry's eyes flicker open, staring out into a blackness just as complete as the one beneath his eyelids. He decides to go with a bit of the truth, just a different truth than the one Tom is asking for.

"I think you saw yourself in me," Harry murmurs quietly, his whispered words sounding oddly loud in the quiet room. "We're both halfbloods, both raised as orphans by muggles who mistreated us. Any connection to the wizarding world either of us had was cut off by our parents' deaths as infants, so we were both raised in a world where we were different, special even, although my uncle just liked to call it being a freak. We even look sort of alike; you know, dark hair and pale skin and all that. I think you saw our similarities." For a moment, there's just silence as Tom mulls over Harry's words. Then searching fingers lightly graze Harry's bare arm.

"You're really my horcrux," Tom whispers almost wonderingly, stroking Harry's exposed skin. "Part of my own soul rests inside you, pumping through your veins with every. Last. Heartbeat. My soul. Mine." Then the fingers on Harry's arm press sharply against him, Tom probing Harry's skin as though trying to feel his own soul through Harry's flesh.

"Yeah, well, it's not like you're going to find it if you stab hard enough," complains Harry, wriggling away from Tom's painful hold. Tom just chuckles low in his chest behind him.

"But that's not true. I can sense myself in you every time we touch. The very first time I took your hand to shake I felt something run through me. A shiver, or a chill. I just didn't know what it was. Now I know better. Now I know that you're mine." Tom removes his hand from Harry's arm, but he stays facing the other boy.

Despite Harry's exhaustion, it takes him a while to fall asleep. Even as he finally drifts off, his overwhelming weariness finally taking over, he can still feel Tom's gaze boring into the back of his neck. As sleep finally claims Harry, Tom's words echo in his head one last time: "_Now I know better. Now I know that you're mine_."

*Author's Note: Uh-oh! Looks like Tom's getting possessive! How is their relationship going to change because of this huge revelation? Thank you everyone for reading, and please review with any feedback you may have. Also, once again, if any one has any requests for this story, please feel free to ask. Thank you! :)*


	8. Chapter 8

The Dark Tide's Pull Ch. 8

*Author's Note: 100 reviews! This story has hit 100 reviews! You have no idea how grateful I am to all of you who have been supplying me with such encouraging feedback. Hearing from you guys really is what keeps me going with this story, and it's why I've been so motivated to keep updating quickly for you guys. I really am truly, truly grateful to everyone who's been reading along with this story! Really, you guys are the best. I can't say thank you enough. Well, on that note, onto the next chapter! Enjoy!*

"In ancient times, people weren't just male or female, but one of three types: male/male, male/female, female/female. In other words, each person was made out of the components of two people. Everyone was happy with this arrangement and never really gave it much a thought. But then God took a knife and cut everybody in half, right down the middle. So after that the world was divided just into male and female, the upshot being that people spend their time running around trying to locate their missing other half."  
― Haruki Murakami, _Kafka on the Shore_

_You're lying in bed, staring up through the darkness at what you know must be the ceiling. It's impossible to see anything but blackness, though. Your eyes have adjusted to the dark by now after hours of lying awake, but down here in the dungeons the blackness is too thick for human eyes to penetrate. Beside you, a chest rhythmically rises and falls beneath crisp sheets. You can feel the warmth radiating off of that person, turning the area beneath the blankets into a miniature furnace. You wonder how that person could ever get cold when they have so much heat burning beneath their skin. _

_Before tonight you would've expected this kind of heat to annoy you. After all, you are usually happiest when you are alone. Other people can get so tiresome after a while. Sometimes you just need to retreat into your head and calm yourself with the sensibility of your own thoughts. Usually you are your own best company, but there's actually something quite soothing about just lying here in the darkness, listening to the other boy's slow, rhythmic breathing. Then again, part of yourself does reside in the other figure; part of your soul, your very essence, the core of who you are. Perhaps that's why this other boy's presence doesn't bother you. Since he is a part of you, being around him is just a less lonely way of being alone. It's… nice._

_ You roll over onto your side in the dimness, turning to face the sleeping boy. You can just barely make out the other figure's outline in the dark: a slight reflection of light on his pale shoulder, the faintest hint of a slightly paler shadow along the curve of his hip under the blankets. This boy from another time. For a moment, you wonder what it's like in the time Harry Potter comes from. You realize you're not even sure when exactly that time is. Better not to ask, though. It's better not to know. You don't want to do anything to jeopardize your future rise to power, and the one thing Harry made clear was that you would rise to power. A self-satisfied smile tugs at the corners of your lips at this thought. Not that you needed some time-travelling boy to tell you that you would go far. You always knew that you were special, destined for greater things. Still, though. It's nice to have it confirmed._

_ As you watch the dim outline of the boy's slim chest rise and fall, you ponder what you're like in the future, in his time. You wonder how you got close enough to this boy to trust him with a segment of your own soul; the greatest form of trust there is. This boy must've proved himself to you a million times, must've been your most loyal servant. You've seen that he's strong. His dueling skills are impeccable despite his young age, his instincts for fighting spot on. His will is strong too, though. Not something you currently think of as making a good follower, but perhaps the keeper of one's soul should be more than just a good follower. When you really think about it, you wouldn't want to entrust your soul to someone who can't think for themselves, someone weak and pliable. You'd want to give it to someone strong, someone worthy of protecting it, someone worthy of you._

_ Suddenly, you're struck with the overwhelming impulse to see the other boy's face, to see this person your future self trusts so completely. You roll over, fingers navigating through the darkness on pure habit alone to close around your wand on the bedside table. A second later, faintly glowing, white bubbles are slowly drifting towards the ceiling to hover above you, bathing the bed in a pale light. You can see now that Harry's back is to you, not that you didn't know that already. Dark, unruly hair sticks up from his head at odd angles, stubbornly defying gravity. Tentatively you reach out and pinch one of the dark locks between your fingers. When he doesn't wake, you become bolder, stroking your hand through his soft curls like you would a cat._

_ You remember reading once in a medical journal meant for healers in training that during any dream, whether sexual or not, one's genitals become aroused. You could be dreaming about anything, even your own parents being killed, and your cock would still be hard in your pajama bottoms. You always found something darkly entertaining about that fact. No matter whom it is you're sleeping next to, be it your best friend or your worst enemy, if you enter REM sleep and start to dream, your genitals will swell with blood. There's something so creepily macabre about that. The blankets are arranged so that you can't tell whether or not Harry is erect right now, though. _

_ You wonder how having part of your soul inside Harry affects his dreams. Maybe he dreams about you, or maybe you and he share the same dreams. A small smirk flickers across your sharp face at the idea of Harry dreaming of you, cock rigid beneath the blankets. For a moment you wonder whether or not you and Harry are sexual partners in his time. After all, your future self is close enough to the boy to impart part of your soul to him; it only seems natural that that would mean the two of you were close enough to have a sexual relationship as well._

_ You scoot closer to the unconscious boy until your chest is flush against his back. Pale fingers move from stroking dark hair to trailing down the long line of his exposed neck. You press your digits down slightly against warm flesh, feeling the boy's pulse flutter beneath your fingertips. For a second, you wonder what it would be like to wrap your fingers around his neck and squeeze; to feel that pulse grow stronger as you press your fingertips closer to its source, then weaken and fade as you cut his oxygen off. Then the moment has passed, and your touch is just a gentle caress again. Innocent. Mostly._

_ Your hand continues its path downwards, gliding over Harry's exposed arm to slip under the covers at his waist. You hand is swallowed up in the body heat captured and held by the blankets. Warmth curls around you, welcoming you. You're so close to the other boy now that you can feel his back moving against your chest with each breath. Tentatively you press your hand forwards, splaying it across his taut stomach. You can feel a slight hint of skin where the boy's shirt has ridden up a little in the night. Then your fingers creep down, dipping under the elastic waist of Harry's pajama bottoms and sliding through a thin smattering of coarse pubic hair. When you finally reach your destination you find that his cock is already half-hard for you. As you clasp the warm member in your palm, it swells with blood even further, stiffening eagerly in response to the stimulation. Your slightly chapped lips press against the other boy's relaxed neck, soothing. Then, you bite down. Hard. It's time for Harry Potter to wake up and participate._

Harry wakes from his dream with a jolt, shifting uncomfortably from looking down at his body to being back in it, looking out. It takes him a moment to settle himself into his surroundings. A hand is slowly stroking his cock, squeezing the impossibly hot flesh torturously. His neck hurts too, a sharp pain almost like a cut. But that hurt is already being soothed by something slick and warm. As consciousness finally catches up to him, he realizes that it's Tom licking the wound on his neck, Tom who's tugging at his cock with talented fingers. The boy who's going to grow up to murder his parents, who will try to murder Harry himself, has his hands around Harry's prick. And it feels good. It shouldn't, Harry knows that it shouldn't, but it does.

"Wha-?" Harry gasps, trying to wrap his head around what is going on, but his words don't seem to be functioning correctly at the moment. Then a thumb flicks over the leaking head of Harry's penis and he can't even remember what it was he was trying to say anymore. Harry hears a dark, amused chuckle from behind him, then lips descend on his aching neck once more, sucking at the sore flesh possessively.

Sleep still clings to Harry's consciousness, hazing out his thoughts into nothing but murky smog. The few functioning thoughts that manage to escape this sleepy stupor are then captured by his overwhelming lust and the sensations coiling in the pit of his stomach to be dispersed into oblivion. To protest at the hand stroking him faster and faster is beyond Harry. Tom's own lust still lingers in Harry from the dream when he was seeing from Tom's point of view, feeling what Tom felt, and this lust only serves to spur on Harry's own desire even more.

"Mine," growls a voice against Harry's exposed neck. Harry just has enough time to experience a second of instinctual apprehension at the other boy's possessive tone before he's cumming. Harry groans softly, toes curling beneath the blankets as his seed spurts out onto the sheets. A second later and a flick of a wand has vanished the pearly substance, leaving both Harry and the bed pristine once more. Suddenly, Harry is furious. Furious that the issue of his own consent was completely thrown out the window, that his vulnerable sleeping body had been taken advantage of. Just because he is Tom's horcrux doesn't mean that the other boy can do whatever he pleases with Harry without Harry's permission. He isn't Tom's play thing, nor is he just some vessel for the other boy's soul. Harry is a person all his own, and he belongs to nobody. No one gets to make decisions for him without consulting him first. No one.

Pallid fingers stroke Harry's sharp cheek in a tender caress and Harry snatches the overly-familiar digits.

"Get your hands off me, Riddle," Harry says coldly. His voice is low and dark, simmering with barely contained fury. He's past the point of yelling, though. This anger is too deep for shouting, too intense for such an outburst to rid him of it. Instantly Harry feels Tom stiffen behind him.

"What did you just say to me?" Tom hisses. Clearly he is not used to being talked back to like this. The people Tom surrounds himself with obey his every whim without question. They wouldn't dare speak to Tom with such rage scorching through their words, at least not rage directed at him. Tom's followers know better.

"I said get your hands off me," reiterates Harry, unafraid. He houses Tom's immortal soul within his veins. Tom may hurt him some, if provoked enough, but not enough to do any lasting damage.

Harry rolls over to face the other boy, still holding Tom's wandering hand prisoner in an iron grip. Green eyes stare straight into deep brown ones and hold. There's something incredibly hard in that gaze, something incredibly strong. That something has Tom staying silent despite himself, allowing Harry to speak.

"I may have part of your soul within me," continues Harry firmly, "and that will bind me to you until the day I die, but that does not mean that you have control over me. It is an equal bond, not one of submission. I am still my own autonomous person. We are bound together, connected until one of us dies and vanishes from this world, but that does not mean that you own me. Nobody owns me. Do you hear me, Riddle? Nobody. And that means that you have to ask before you touch me. I will happily show you respect for the bond we share, but only if you, in turn, will respect me."

For a moment the pair just lies there in silence, each silently challenging the other the back down with their eyes. Tom's expression shifts from shocked to calculating as he studies Harry's determined features. There isn't a flicker of fear in those green orbs; just steadfast resolve. In that moment, he understands for the first time why he would have bestowed upon this boy the greatest form of trust another person can give. To give another person a segment of your soul creates a stronger and more powerful connection than a wedding ring. It is permanent, eternal. It is, in itself, the deepest form of respect. And as Tom stares down into the steely strength flashing in those emerald eyes, he suddenly understands why his future self marked Harry as his equal.

"Alright, Potter," murmurs Tom softly, and the vice like grip on his wrist slackens. As soon as Tom's wrist is free he rolls out of bed, tugging his pajama top off over his head. Harry quickly looks away, suddenly fascinated with a patch of stone on the wall beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he can still see Tom slither out of his pajamas, exposing tempting expanses of pale skin.

"You might want to get changed yourself," comments Tom as he slides on his trousers. "We're going out."

"Out?" asks Harry, still staring pointedly at the wall.

"Yes," replies Tom, obviously amused at Harry's attempt at modesty after what had just happened between them. "Out."

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me where?" probes Harry.

"You'll find out soon enough," says Tom, tossing Harry a folded up pile of clothing. Harry just stares at the clothes for a moment before registering that they're his. He wonders for a second what Tom is doing with a set of Harry's clothes and how the other boy got them. Then he decides that he's better off not knowing.

"We have someone to meet," Tom continues, still annoyingly vague.

"Sounds like you have someone to meet," retorts Harry with a yawn, not keen on going anywhere without knowing where or why. "I, on the other hand, don't have class until this afternoon and don't have any homework yet. So I can do whatever I want. And right now a good lie in sounds like heaven."

"Potter, you can either get dressed and get out the door now, or I'll immobilize you, dress you myself and hover your frozen body along after me," snaps Tom, his patient amusement rapidly beginning to fade. Disobedience is not something Tom knows how to tolerate well. Not for long at least. Harry may be special, but that can't change Tom's makeup entirely. He is who he is, and what he is is obeyed. Immediately.

"Right, well," says Harry quickly. "I'll just hurry up and get dressed then, shall I?"

"I think that would be wise," retorts Tom, his temper settling now that he's gotten his way. "After all," he continues, his voice suddenly more somber, "we can't keep the Great Grindelwald waiting, can we?"

*Author's Note: Well, there you have it, folks. Chapter eight is complete! Why are Tom and Harry going to meet Grindelwald? What could make Grindelwald come so close to Dumbledore, the man he fears most? You guys are going to have to wait and see. ;) Thank you to everyone for reading. Please review with any feedback you may have. Also, feel free to let me know about any requests you may have for this story. Thank you!*


	9. Chapter 9

The Dark Tide's Pull ch. 9

*Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed this story! It really makes my day to hear from you guys. I should probably clear up a few things now about my altered timeline for Harry's own time period. I do not kill off Dumbledore, but I do make Dumbledore explain much more to Harry. So, even though Dumbledore is still alive, Harry does still know about the Deathly Hallows and Dumbledore's own past relationship with Grindelwald. Anyways, I hope that will help clear up a few things. Enjoy!*

"It's not as if our lives are divided simply into light and dark. There's shadowy middle ground. Recognizing and understanding the shadows is what a healthy intelligence does."  
― Haruki Murakami, _After Dark_

The decrepit door to the Shrieking Shack opens with a loud enough creak to be worthy of the house's nickname. Tom, Harry, and Tom's gang of Slytherin followers stand on the haunted house's doorstep, staring nervously through the now open door. Beyond the doorway lies a long hallway, dark and narrow. The end of the corridor can't be seen, swallowed up in the blackness. What can be seen is crumbling. Years and years of being vacant have taken their toll on the house, cracking its floorboards and sagging its walls. The house appears to be buckling, unable to bear its own weight let alone the weight of anyone who decides to enter its cramped interior. No one in Tom's group seems keen on going in first.

"Check it," commands Tom, nodding curtly at Jonathon Nott. Jonathon tentatively passes the ancient building's threshold, giving the group of Slytherins behind him one last nervous glance. Once both feet are resting on the century old wooden floors, he raises his wand.

"Hominem Revelio," he murmurs, his words swallowed up by the silence of the house. Instantly, five spheres of gold light materialize in the air in front of Jonathon before drifting upwards and vanishing into the cracked ceiling.

"They're already here," he says softly, his full lips pressed together tightly in anxiety. "Five of them. Upstairs."

"Damn," hisses Tom, his voice equally as hushed as Jonathon's. No need to call any more attention to themselves from Grindelwald and his followers than the creaking door already may have. Not until they know what traps, if any, have already been set up along the haunted house's narrow corridors. "I had been hoping that we would be the first to arrive. Oh, well. It's no matter."

Tom raises his wand and begins casting diagnostic spells over the Shrieking Shack's doorway. Multicolored bursts of light dance around the greying doorframe, some sinking into the crumbling wood, others exploding against it in a vibrant shower of sparks.

"It hasn't been booby-trapped," Tom finally announces as the last smattering of violet sparks flitters down to the floor and vanishes.

"Rosier," he continues, turning to face the curly-haired boy, "you stay here to watch our backs and guard our retreat if necessary. If worse comes to worst, I want to know that we have a safe way out of here." Rosier nods, his usually cheerful face somber now in the face of the possibility of real danger. Usually, Voldemort's group is feared, not fearful. Normally they get to feel safe knowing that they are the scariest things around. Now, though, there's something else scarier than their group of petty thugs. It's a new feeling, and not a pleasant one. Bullies don't like to be bullied. It upsets the delicate balance of their fragile worlds.

"Nott, you take the lead," commands Tom, his voice firm, and not to be argued with. "Scout on ahead, and make sure that we aren't walking into any sort of a trap up there. Mulciber you go next; you can back Nott up if there's any sort of ambush. Then I will go, followed by Lestrange, Stoddard, Avery and then Harry, in that order. Is that clear?" Everyone nods. Avery gives Harry a scrutinizing look, trying to assess the reason behind the brunette's sudden upgrade to first name basis. Harry just keeps his expression blank. Let Avery wonder. He'll never be able to figure it out.

"Right. Let's go then," declares Tom, and Jonathon begins to advance further into the depths of the haunted house, casting a silencing spell to cut off the ancient floor boards' creaks of protest at the added weight. Everyone slowly steps into place after the blonde, tiptoeing down the corridor in single file. Harry is the last to enter, his wand held tightly in his fist, ready for a fight to break out at any moment.

The group presses on in silence, Jonathon's lit wand tip leading the way through the Shrieking Shack's shadowy interior. The house looks much as Harry remembers it from his third year. Despite the fact that this version of the Shrieking Shack is fifty years younger than in Harry's time, the house still manages to look just as old and precarious as Harry recalls. All around Harry the structure of the house is grey and thinning, like the hair of an elderly man. Time has sucked all the color from the house, sapping all the rich brown from the once nice wood and dimming once vibrant wall paper. Darkness hangs on the manor like it has weight. Harry can practically feel it pressing against his shoulders, trying to slow him down and keep him from going further inside. As Harry traverses the house's cramped hallways, he can understand why so many people think that this place is haunted. The manor has a creepy air about it, the stillness within its empty interior too still, too deserted. The house feels dead, as though it is nothing but a corpse, a shadow of what the house once was. For a moment, Harry wonders what the house was like back when people actually still lived here. Was this house once loved, once filled with life and blood and warmth? It seems impossible.

The group reaches the bottom of the crooked stair case. Jonathon casts a few diagnostic spells on the wooden stairs, then he slowly begins to creep upwards, body stealthily half crouched.

"Wait here," hisses Tom to Avery, his voice the faintest of whispers. "Cover us if we need to retreat back this way." Avery nods, stepping aside at the bottom of the stairs to allow Harry to pass him. Harry doesn't envy the boy. Avery is probably in less danger here away from any possible confrontation, but he has to stand here alone in this creepy house, listening to the structure groan eerily with every gust of wind. Better to be with people, even if those people are walking straight into the hands of the second most powerful dark wizard of all time. Then again, they do have the first most powerful dark wizard of all time to guard them, so maybe that isn't so bad after all.

At the top of the steps, Jonathon pauses.

"Hominem Revelio," he whispers again. This time the five balls of golden light drift into one of the doors on the left of the narrow hall. Obviously, that's where Grindelwald awaits them. Jonathon turns to look at Tom, silently asking what he should do next. Tom pantomimes knocking on the air with one fist. Jonathon frowns, tucking a stray lock of long, blond hair behind one ear nervously. Then, he creeps silently down the corridor. The rest of the Slytherins hurry up the stairs after him, wands raised defensively. Jonathon gives the group one last anxious glance, then he gingerly raises one fist and knocks on the closed door.

"Enter," calls a deep, smooth voice. A voice that sends a mild shiver down Harry's spine. Not an unpleasant shiver, though.

"Masks on," mouths Tom, tapping his own cheek with the tip of his wand. Silver fluid streams from the narrow length of wood, coating Tom's face like a second skin. In just a second, Tom's handsome face is gone, replaced by hardened metal. Everyone else follows suit, Slytherin faces slipping away into silver plated anonymity. Harry just watches them, unfamiliar with the spell used. Tom rolls his eyes behind his mask, pointing his wand right at the center of Harry's forehead. A wet sensation spreads over Harry's features, chilling Harry's skin rather uncomfortably. When Harry's probing fingers tentatively reach up to feel his face, his fingertips come into contact with smooth metal. He too, now, is just another one of Tom's anonymous followers. He's wearing the mask of the future Death Eaters.

Tom nods, and Jonathon slowly turns the door's handle, easing it open to reveal five hooded figures beyond. Cautiously, the Slytherin boys file into the room, wands at the ready. For a moment, the two groups just stand there, eyeing each other up. Grindelwald's group is comprised of five adults: four men and one woman. Grindelwald himself stands in the center of the group. Harry recognizes the dark wizard immediately from old photos in his own time. The man must be the same age as Dumbledore, after all, they were close as teenagers, but Grindelwald doesn't look anywhere near as elderly as Dumbledore. His hair is still a rich, honey blond, and his tan skin is completely unlined. Clearly some magic has been used to diminish time's effect on the older man. Grindelwald is still quite handsome, as well, with sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. There's a confident air about him, and an alluring mischievous twinkle in his light blue eyes. Harry can see how this man could've charmed Dumbledore into losing his common sense as a teenager.

"Goof afternoon, Mr. Riddle," says Grindelwald, correctly identifying Tom despite the group's masks.

"Grindelwald," Tom replies concisely. Drew Stoddard and Sean Mulciber flank Tom on either side, their hulking figures bigger and more intimidating than anyone Grindelwald has with him. It's just appearances, though. Harry would be willing to bet that if push comes to shove, Grindelwald's followers would be much more dangerous than they appear. Smaller doesn't mean any less deadly when it comes to magic. In fact, bigger just makes for an easier target.

"Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Riddle," continues Grindelwald, flashing Tom a charming smile. Tom returns the gesture, his expression equally as alluring, equally as fake. These men have mastered how to play on other's emotions. They know how to draw people in with desire and then hold them there with fear. This conversation is one between two masters of manipulation, two of the most powerful dark wizards of all time.

Harry tries to recall what he knows about Grindelwald from his own time, but the truth is that he doesn't know much. By the time Harry was born, Grindelwald had been almost completely eclipsed by Voldemort's misdeeds. Besides, Grindelwald never really had a presence in England; too afraid of Dumbledore to so much as set foot on the island. Or so Harry had thought at least. But here the man is, within a mile of the school Dumbledore teaches at. Gindelwald must really want Tom to commit to his cause to risk coming here.

For a moment, the true extent of Dumbledore's power settles over Harry. Dumbledore is the only man powerful enough to evoke fear in both of the most powerful dark wizards in history; two wizards Harry is currently standing in a small, crumbling room with. How does he manage to do things like this to himself?

"That's quite a lovely ring," comments Grindelwald politely, gesturing to the large black stone wrapped around Tom's bony finger: the ring Tom pried from the limp hand of poor Morfin Gaunt. "That's the Peverell coat of arms, is it not?" The question is spoken casually, but Harry can see the desire flooding the older man's blue eyes. Then it clicks in Harry's memory and he quickly looks down at the wand clasped in the other man's hand: fifteen inches long, with carvings resembling clusters of elderberries down the side. The Elder Wand. The most powerful wand in existence, said to be made by death himself and only wielded by the master of death. Stolen from the Gregorovitch in the dead of night years ago. Clearly, Grindelwald has not given up on his quest to find all three of the Deathly Hallows, and unfortunately for Tom Riddle, he unknowingly has one wrapped around his middle finger.

"Thank you," replies Tom politely, bowing his head slightly. "A family heirloom."

"Yes, lovely." Grindelwald forces himself to tear his hungry gaze away from the ring, smiling up at Tom innocently once more. "Well we're hearing whispers of Lord Voldemort's masked men all the way at Durmstrang. Whispers of fear. You really seem to have a talent for someone so young."

"Youth is hardly a detriment to power," replies Tom, effortlessly bantering with the older wizard.

"Quite so," agrees Grindelwald, his smile growing almost maliciously satisfied the longer he looks at Tom. "It is never too early to start fighting for the greater good." Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. The greater good. The phrase in itself is not offensive. Harry himself has made numerous sacrifices for what could be called the greater good. Grindelwald's definition of good just differs from Harry's. After all, it's not like Grindelwald thinks of himself as evil. No one ever thinks of themselves as the villain; no one is ever really the bad guy. No, to Grindelwald, he really is pursuing the greater good. Grindelwald may be seeking power and acclaim, but he does believe in his own cause. It's amazing what horrible misdeeds you can justify to yourself if you try hard enough.

"Us wizards have been bestowed with a special power, with magic, and with that added power comes added responsibility," lectures Grindelwald, ramping up into what's obviously a rehearsed and much used speech. "It is our duty to not only protect wizarding bloodlines from being tainted by the impurities of those without magic, but also to protect those without magic from themselves. It is our responsibility to claim power over the muggles, and to maintain the balance of the world. Muggles are naturally set below wizards as we have been given gifts that they have not. It is time that those muggles were put into their proper place, serving their betters. For their own good. For the good of society as a whole."

Throughout this little speech Harry can feel his temper slowly begin to bubble up behind his silver mask. This kind of arrogance, this kind of bigotry is exactly what's wrong with the world. To talk about muggles as though, just because they lack magic, they somehow lack humanity is ridiculous. Grindelwald's rise to power isn't about helping the muggles at all; it's about feeding Grindelwald's already inflated ego.

"The greater good," Harry suddenly interrupts, unable to hold his boiling temper in check any longer, "is that a phrase you came up with yourself?" For a second the room is silent. Grindelwald's pompous grin has been wiped from his face, leaving him looking as though he's suddenly smelled something foul. All eyes in the room are now on Harry.

"Of course," Grindelwald replies curtly. His voice is still as light and charming as ever, but his expression is dark now, his eyes cold as they observe Harry closely.

"Really?" retorts Harry angrily. "Because I heard that someone else came up with it. Someone you used to be quite close to when you were younger. Someone you fear so much that you have avoided taking over this entire continent."

"You- you little-" splutters Grindelwald, his blue eyes bugging wide with fury, distorting his normally handsome face into a twisted mask of rage. For a moment, the enchantments on Grindelwald's face flicker, revealing just for the briefest moment a hint of the old man Grindelwald really is. Then Grindelwald is young and beautiful again. Furious, but beautiful nonetheless. Behind the anger, though, is a hint of fear. How on earth could Harry know that it was really Dumbledore who came up with the phrase 'the greater good'? No one knows how close the two once were. It would be bad news for both of them if that little secret came out. There is no way that this masked boy could know, but he does.

In an instant, Grindelwald's wand is pointed straight at Harry's exposed throat.

"HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT YOU INSOLENT BRAT!" he screams, all charm suddenly gone.

"Avada-" Grindelwald begins, but a jet of red light straight to his chest cuts him off, sending him sprawling, unconscious to the floor. In an instant, everyone's wands are raised.

Tom stands panting with fury in the middle of the room, his wand still pointing at Grindelwald's unmoving chest. For a moment, Harry is taken back to Dumbledore's office, remembering the old man's words vividly.

"_Voldemort's arrival on the scene is the only reason that Grindelwald isn't considered the most powerful dark wizard of all time. Grindelwald was powerful, almost as powerful as me, but compared to Voldemort he was weak, nothing."_

Harry is snapped out of this recollection by a stunner almost hitting his head. Quickly, Harry ducks, casting a leg-locker jinx at the woman who had tried to curse him. She falls to the floor twitching, her bound legs unable to support her weight. Harry is about to cast a spell at another of Grindelwald's followers when strong arms close around him, hoisting him off the ground.

"Hey!" Harry yells, struggling in his captor's hold. "Let me go!"

"Sorry, Harry," says a familiar voice from somewhere below Harry, and Harry quickly relaxes, realizing the identity of his captor. "Orders. I'm to get you out of here." And then Stoddard throws Harry hastily over his shoulder and is sprinting out of the room and down the hall. Not fast enough for Harry to miss the shouted threat from one of Grindelwald's followers, though.

"We'll get you, you impudent little twat! We'll find you, and when we do you'll rot in Nurmengard! You hear me? Rot!"

Nurmengard: The wizard prison built by Grindewald to hold his opponents. A jet black, forbidding fortress with small stone cells and not a hope of escape.

Harry could only hope that he could return to his own time period in time for the threat to remain just that: a threat.

*Author's Note: Uh-oh! Harry sure has a knack for pissing off dark wizards, doesn't he? Thank you to everyone for reading, and please review with any feedback you may have. Hearing from you is really what keeps me going. I hope you liked this most recent addition! :)*


	10. Chapter 10

The Dark Tide's Pull ch. 10

*Author's Note: Thank you every who has been following along with this story! I really appreciate hearing from you guys, and I hope you will enjoy this most recent addition!*

"Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up."  
― Neil Gaiman, _The Sandman, Vol. 9: The Kindly Ones_

Darkness settles all around Tom, cloaking him from sight. The night is familiar, comforting. Tom is used to the night. It's the time when the school is his, his and his gang's. Right now he needs that comfort, needs to feel powerful and in control. Too many things have gone wrong today. He can feel the anger simmering in his chest, ready to boil over at any moment. It's all he can do to keep himself in check. He needs an outlet, someone to take all this horrible rage out on. Until he lets it out, he won't be rid of it, and he needs to be rid of this feeling. It feels different than the fury he's used to, thinner, like a tightness in his chest and throat. His eyes are even stinging with its strength. Tom really needs this feeling to go away.

All around him, familiar masked figures hurry to keep up. Tom is practically running now, jogging through endless stone hallways in the search of some student out of bed to torment. Tom needs to hurt someone, needs to know that someone else out there is hurting more than he is right now. To control someone else completely, to have them begging you for release: Tom must have that feeling. He has to bring someone else lower than him.

Harry had been such a fool today. That ignorant brat had not only completely ruined any chance Tom may have had of joining Grindelwald in his noble quest, but he had also put them all at risk. More importantly, Harry had put himself in danger, and with himself, Tom's horcrux. Why his future self had chosen to make such a reckless, stubborn boy the carrier of his soul Tom has no idea. One of the most important parts of manipulating other people is to know when to keep one's mouth shut. Tom knows this all too well. There are so many things that he would like to say to all the simpering, ignorant fools he interacts with on a daily basis, so many times he just wants to tell them all to shut the hell up and leave him the fuck alone. But he can't. Here, at Hogwarts, Tom is just the friendly, mild-mannered prefect: the one everyone likes and respects. Tom the prefect can't tell everyone to fuck off; he just has to grin and bear all of them hanging off of him like adoring fans. Only at night, behind the cover of his mask can Tom really show his true self. There's nothing more freeing than anonymity: nothing. At night Tom can leave even his very name behind. At night, Tom Marvolo Riddle is no more; only Lord Voldemort remains. And right now Lord Voldemort is very angry.

Why couldn't Harry have just kept his big mouth shut? Things had been going so well. It had taken Tom's reputation years to spread far enough for Grindelwald to hear of it. Years. And now all of that effort has gone to waste. Not that Tom wanted to serve under anyone, not even someone as powerful as Grindelwald, but it would have been worth having to put up with playing the loyal servant for a while to learn what Grindelwald knows. Tom would've only had to pretend for a while, and Tom knows how to be patient. Eventually, when Tom had learned everything Grindelwald has to teach, he would've killed the older man and taken over command of his vast army of followers. It would have been so simple. Just a little patience, and Tom would've had everything Grindelwald possesses, would've been even more powerful, even more feared. Now that possibility is gone. All because of some temperamental teenager. A teenager with part of Tom's soul nestled inside him. A teenager who could've died mere hours earlier if Tom hadn't interfered. For a moment, the cold, thin feeling in Tom's chest grows.

"We should check up by Gryffindor Tower, my lord," suggests Lestrange tentatively from behind Tom. "They're the only ones cocky enough to sneak out at night nowadays." Lestrange knows that it's a risk to say anything to his master when Voldemort's in this foul of a mood, but they've been stalking the castle for over twenty minutes now without finding anyone. If they don't find someone for the dark lord to torture soon, then he'll start taking his anger out on them. It's worth risking saying something to keep that from happening. Better some foolish Gryffindor than them. Luckily for Lestrange, his gamble pays off as Tom silently changes directions, striding off towards Gryffindor tower.

Tom's feet maneuver through the castle on autopilot, his thoughts elsewhere, still focused on what could have happened back in the Shrieking Shack earlier. He can see the cold fury etched on Harry's controlled features, can see the victory flash in those emerald eyes as Grindelwald's face distorts with rage at the younger boy's words. Then he sees Grindewald's wand flash through the air, too fast for Harry to get his own wand up in time. He sees the older wizard's mouth move, saying fatal words, killing words. What if Tom hadn't been fast enough? What if Grindelwald had managed to finish that deadly incantation? Tom can feel his heart quickening in his chest, his pulse throbbing hard in his neck. In Tom's mind, memory transitions into imagination, and a green jet of light shoots through the air, catching Harry straight in the chest. Harry's vibrant green eyes have just enough time to widen in shock, and then he's falling. In Tom's mind's eye, Harry lies crumpled on the ground, unmoving. Just like the Riddles after Tom killed them, this imagined version of Harry shows no sign of what killed him other than the surprised expression on his face. Suddenly Tom's throat feels tight, as though there's a lump stopping it up, and his eyes are stinging. It's not a feeling he's familiar with. He must just be shaken at the idea that his only other horcrux, his only tie to immortality, could have been taken away earlier. After all, why should it matter to him if Harry dies? The boy is just a liability. The only reason Tom cares about him at all is because Harry carries part of his soul inside him. That's it.

Tom is so wrapped up in this cycle of thoughts that it's only Nott's urgent hand on his shoulder that alerts him to the fact that there are voices in the corridor up ahead. Not students' voices either. No, one of those voices belongs to Albus Dumbledore. Tom freezes, suddenly horrified with himself. How could he be so careless, so absent minded? He had been so caught up in his own morbid thoughts that he had nearly walked their group right into the one man who suspects him. Tom quickly flaps his hand at the boys behind him, motioning for them to go back. Carefully, moving as quietly as possible, the boys tiptoe backwards, eyes fixed on where the voices are drawing ever closer. Then, the voices are suddenly too close. Obviously the men are just about the round the corner, and Tom's masked group will be stuck out in plain sight. Quickly, Tom turns around, waving his wand in a desperate last resort. The group of Slytherin boys shimmers for a moment, then disappears as Tom's disillusionment charm kicks in. It isn't perfect; if someone came close enough and looked hard enough they might see the faint outline of people in the air, but from far away the spell should hold.

Albus Dumbledore and the Herbology professor Herbert Beery round the corner, chatting to each other amiably. Luckily for the group of hidden Slytherins, Professor Beery begins to head up the hallway in the opposite direction from their invisible forms. Dumbledore is about to follow him, but just before he would've turned his back on the group of boys he pauses, seeming to sense something. His long face frowns, crinkling into a mass of lines as he begins to turn back in Tom's direction.

"Albus?" calls Professor Beery, beckoning Dumbledore to follow him. "Come on; I really need you to help me out repotting these Bumbulous Blinghorns. If we don't move them soon enough, they'll start fighting one another for space, and heaven knows we don't want that to happen! It would be a blood bath!"

"Right, yes," says Dumbledore slowly, squinting suspiciously right at where Mulciber's large form is currently hidden. He gives the spot one last curious look, then allows Professor Beery to drag him away down the corridor. Tom waits until the two men have completely vanished from sight, then lets out a long, relieved sigh. Tonight just isn't his night. He could swear that Dumbledore sensed his disillusionment charm. That man really is too perceptive for his own good. He's the only person in this castle, maybe even this country who poses a real threat to Tom in his rise to power, and Tom knows it. He can't afford to cross that man, not yet at least. Maybe, warns a small part of him, not ever.

"That's it for tonight," mutters Tom to the group of frozen Slytherins, removing the disillusionment charm with a tired flick of his wand. "I'm going to bed. You're welcome to stay out looking for victims if you'd like, but I'm done for the night. If you do choose to stay out then I'm placing Nott in charge." Nott nods at Tom solemnly, accepting the responsibility and trust Tom has just placed in him. It's a great privilege to be put in charge like this; it means that Tom has faith in him. Tom breaks off from the group without another word, moving rapidly back towards the dungeons. The shock of that close call with Dumbledore has dissipated his anger, leaving him with nothing but chilling fear. Suddenly, Tom just wants to see Harry's peacefully sleeping form. He wants to know that the other boy is safe in Tom's bed, that Tom's soul, Tom's immortality is safe and sound.

Tom descends through the castle at a run, only removing his mask once he's safely ensconced in the Slytherin common room once more. Silver melts from Tom's face, revealing sharp, handsome features. Now, he's Tom Riddle once more. Tom takes the steps up to his room two at a time, not bothering to hide the panic beginning to thrum in his chest since no one is around to witness this weakness. Tom only stops once he's outside the door to his room. Here, Tom takes a deep, calming breath. Then, he carefully inches the door open, trying his best not to wake the room's sleeping occupant. Tom pauses for a moment in the open doorway, listening carefully to the still room. Then Tom catches the faint sound of Harry's slow, rhythmic breathing, and he finally begins to feel safe once more. Harry is safe; his soul is safe. Not that there's any reason that Harry wouldn't be, it's just, well, it's been a long day.

Tom slips into the dark room, easing the door shut as quietly as possibly behind him. Pale fingers untie Tom's dark cloak, letting it fall to the ground in a messy heap. Then Tom's shirt follows suit. Shiny, black shoes are kicked off to land somewhere unseen in the room's comforting blackness. Socks quickly follow. Finally, Tom's pants join the pile on the floor, leaving the boy in nothing but his boxers. Tom tiptoes across the floor until his searching fingers feel the soft duvet on his bed. He peels back the blankets and slithers beneath, instantly feeling the heat of the bed's other occupant radiating onto his chilled flesh. Tom sighs, curling into that comforting heat. He scoots forward into that warmth until his chest makes contact with the smooth curve of Harry's back. Tom curls around the other boy, nuzzling his nose into the fine hairs on the back of the other boy's neck and tucking his frozen toes beneath Harry's warm feet. He sighs again against Harry's skin, wrapping his pale arm around the brunette's slim torso. It's oddly comforting to hold the other boy like this, almost… tenderly. This boy is his, is bound to him more strongly than any other two people are connected. Clutching his horcrux to him like this makes Tom feel safe, secure. He's not used to gaining that feeling from another person like this. It's odd, different, but not necessarily bad.

"We've talked about this," murmurs a sleepy voice from the darkness. "You're supposed to ask before touching me." Harry's voice is low and gravely, sleep still clinging to each soft word. The words are chiding, but there's no real anger there. Tom just clutches the boy tighter to him, pressing his hips into the other boy's behind.

"You shouldn't have said that to Grindelwald earlier," is all Tom says in reply, ignoring Harry's statement. For a moment, Harry just lies there silently, neither accepting Tom's embrace nor rejecting it. Then, whispered words slither through the darkness.

"You don't have to worry about Grindelwald," states Harry. "He won't be a problem much longer. By my time he's nothing. There's only you. In my time, Grindelwald is nothing but memories. Your reign will be so much more. People will fear you so much that their fear of Grindelwald is gone, eclipsed. He isn't half the dark wizard you will be, Riddle." There's no emotion in these words, no anger or excitement or fear. They're just facts, just true. Voldemort is so much worse than Grindelwald, his legacy of terror so much greater. Even though Harry finds Voldemort's acts despicable, even he must admit that those acts took a unique wizard, a unique power. For a second, Harry remembers how Olivander described Voldemort when Harry first bought his wand. Olivander had turned Harry's wand over and over between his wizened fingers, seeing not it, but its twin. The old man's voice had shook with both fear and admiration, his blue eyes glazed over in what could only be described as wonder.

"_The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. It's not always clear why. But I think it is clear that we can expect great things from you. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible! Yes. But great._"

Tom says nothing in response to Harry's statement, simply processing the whispered words. Then cool lips press against Harry's neck and pale fingers creep down Harry's chest to the top of his pajama bottoms.

"Let me touch you," says Tom. The words could be interpreted as a command, but Harry knows that there's a question there. These words are Tom's way of respecting him, of following Harry's insistence that he ask first.

Beneath the darkness, Harry rolls over to face the man who will one day try to kill him.

"No," he says solemnly, then full lips descend on his. Tom's lips are surprisingly soft against Harry's, his tongue surprisingly gentle as it presses into his mouth. Tom's hands go to Harry's shoulders, carefully but forcefully pushing the other boy flat against the bed. Tom settles on top of Harry, swinging his leg over the other boy's narrow hips so that he's straddling him. Harry can feel Tom's rapidly hardening cock against his thigh as the dark wizard's lips move down to his jaw, nipping and sucking at the delicate flesh. A wet tongue traces Harry's neck, settling on his fluttering pulse. Fingers pinch at Harry's nipples through his pajama top, tugging them into hard peaks beneath the soft fabric. Tentatively, Harry's hands reach up to settle on Tom's hips above him, reluctantly making him an active participant in this event.

In the dark, Tom's hands slide down Harry's sides to settle on the top of Harry's pajama bottoms. Tom raises his hips off of Harry for a moment, tugging Harry's pajama bottoms down slightly onto his thighs, exposing Harry's half-hard cock to the cool night air. Tom doesn't bother taking his own boxers off, instead just pulling his erection free through the long slit in the fabric meant for such ease. Hips descend upon Harry's own, and a smooth erection is grinding against his own. The rosy skin of Tom's cock is velvety against Harry's, and the resulting stimulation causes Harry's fingers to tighten around Tom's sharp hip bones. For a minute, Tom just continues to rock against Harry, rubbing their erections together tantalizingly. Then Tom pulls back, his fingers reaching down to circle Harry's puckered entrance. Harry can hear the other boy's ragged breathing in the air, can practically feel the boy's excited anticipation as that finger begins to press into Harry's tight flesh. Then Harry's hand is curled tightly around Tom's thin wrist, keeping the other boy from pushing any further into him.

"No," Harry says firmly. "You don't get to fuck me, Riddle." For a moment, Tom just sits there, his fingertip still encased in the tight heat of Harry's body, fury at being denied shuddering through him. People do not get to tell Tom no. Tom is to be obeyed. He is Lord Voldemort, soon to be the greatest dark wizard of all time. If he wants to fuck someone, he will. But then the moment of proud fury passes, and Tom pulls his finger free, moving his hand to Harry's cock instead. Tom gives the hot flesh a few contemplative strokes, seemingly thinking over his next move. Tom scoots forward slightly, his erection bumping against Harry's. Tom presses their hard cocks together, wrapping both of his hands around them and beginning to stroke them together firmly. Harry groans at the sensation, his toes curling slightly against crisp sheets as he starts to feel the beginnings of his orgasm curling in his stomach. A minute later has them both spilling their seed onto Harry's chest, staining his pajama top with damp splotches. Tom releases their withering erections, sliding off of Harry to lie on the bed next to him.

"Scourgify," murmurs a voice in the dark, and the semen on Harry's clothes vanishes, as though it was never there, as though Harry had never had any kind of sexual contact with the man who will someday kill his parents and countless others. As a pale arm curls possessively around Harry's chest and a bony cheek nestles into the crook of Harry's neck, Harry suddenly remembers Sybill Trelawney's harsh, cold voice as she pronounced Harry's fate.

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. … Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies … and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. … The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…_"

Harry wonders if this moment is part of that prophecy, if lying here in the cool blackness with the dark lord pressed against him is all part of the plan.

Somehow, Harry doubts it.

*Author's note: A little dirty fun for you guys. ;) Poor Tom, starting to care about someone for the first time is hard. I hope you guys liked this chapter! Please review with any feedback or requests you may have. Also, as I already have the rest of this story planned out, I've started to think about my next TMR/HP story. If you guys have any requests for what story I should write after this one, please just let me know and I will definitely keep it in mind. Thank you all so much for reading!*


	11. Chapter 11

The Dark Tide's Pull Ch. 11

*Author's Note: Sorry it took me a little longer than usual to upload this chapter. I've been on vacation and away from my computer. Don't worry, you won't have to wait as long for the next one. Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed this story! I love hearing from you guys. I also really want to thank everyone who's has been diligently reviewing with each update. It warms my heart to see you guys following along, it really does. Enjoy!*

"Things may look different to you than they did before. I've had that experience myself. But don't let appearances fool you. There's only one reality."  
― Haruki Murakami, _1Q84_

A loud crack sounds in Diagon Alley. Normally, the sound would echo off the stone streets, but today the street is packed, filled with determined weekend shoppers. Today, the warm flesh of the crowd swallows up the sound, absorbing it. Suddenly, where once had just been thin air now exists a group of slightly unsteady Slytherin boys. Tom, Harry, and Tom's hang hurry out of the way of grumbling pedestrians, melting seamlessly into the crowd. So as not to be detected as students out of bounds, Slytherin green and silver have been discarded in favor of plain, black cloaks. In these cloaks the school boys could be anyone, any age. Their youthful faces are nothing but shadow beneath cowled hoods. Quietly, the boys weave through the throngs of people to slither down a small side street: a side street Harry hadn't planned on ever returning to.

Nocturn Alley somehow seems to be a few shades darker than Diagon Alley. It's as if, no matter where the sun is in the sky, the street is in perpetual shadow. Perhaps it's Harry's imagination, but the side street also feels a few degrees colder than the warm hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley. The store fronts here don't try to draw in customers with brightly colored displays of their wares. Instead, wares are hidden deep inside and locked away, only to be produced if specifically asked for. The kinds of things these stores sell cannot be advertised in case the wrong eyes see them: eyes that care about the law and safety and other such trivial things.

"You going to tell me why we're here yet?" Harry asks, eyeing a particularly iffy looking one-eyed man. Tom just raises a dark eyebrow at Harry, giving him a skeptical glance. Harry sighs. Of course finding out wouldn't be that easy. Tom enjoys playing with Harry by keeping his little secrets.

"We've just got to pick something up," Tom finally says, revealing just a hint more.

"Well that's specific…" Harry grumbles dourly. "I don't understand how any of you guys have time to do your homework with all this running around the country." The corners of Tom's lips quirk up in an amused smile.

"It's a learned skill," he says smugly.

"Obviously not learned through a homework assignment," Harry jokes flatly. Tom almost chuckles. Almost.

The farther the group of boys goes into Nocturn Alley, the more hooded figures appear to populate the dark street. Unlike the purposeful shoppers of Diagon Alley, these people merely drift aimlessly along the cobblestones. They don't seem to have a specific destination in mind; they just cling to the shadowy walls and watch. At the moment, what they're watching is the group of Slytherin boys. Who knows what they watch when the boys aren't there. Perhaps just each other, or maybe they just stare into space waiting for someone of interest to go by. It certainly doesn't seem like they have anything better to do. This feeling of unseen eyes on him gives Harry the creeps. Every instinct in his body is shouting at him that this narrow street isn't a good place to be. Just like in his second year when he came here by mistake, all Harry wants to do is run away from these creepy, crookedly smiling people on this creepy, crooked street. Harry remembers the hands reaching for him, the cracked voices spitting empty, honey-coated reassurances at him. Who knows what those people would've done to Harry back then if they hadn't been stopped. There's no big, friendly Hagrid to save him this time, though. But the stragglers don't try to grab him with gnarled fingers this time. This time he's in a big group. This time they just watch, and wait. It doesn't feel much better, though.

Harry is just about to ask Tom if their little errand is going to take long when a familiar chill shoots up his spine. Suddenly, the air around the group is ice cold, as though any heat had been sucked off into some black hole. Gravity feels suddenly heavier on Harry's shoulders, making each movement slower and more tedious. Harry's hand instantly goes to his wand. Only one thing could be causing this, and if they're all the way out here then it's no coincidence. Tom's group is being ambushed. Dementors are coming.

Within moments, the street that had been lined with dozens of people is completely deserted aside from the Slytherin boys.

"Grindelwald," declares Tom. "It's an ambush." His wand is out and pointed ahead of the group down the now misty alleyway, and his knees are bent slightly beneath billowing robes: a fighter's stance. There's no hint of panic or worry on his expression, only focus. It's this ability, Harry thinks, that makes him a leader. A dark leader, but a leader nonetheless.

"Positions," Tom orders the group of shaken boys. In a swirl of black fabric, the group rearranges itself. Big hands grab Harry under the armpits, swinging the startled boy around in a circle until he's behind Drew Stoddard. Harry just blinks up at the large boy, taken aback. Drew doesn't bother to explain, already turning back towards Tom. Clearly, Drew is under orders to keep Harry from any harm. Normally, Harry wouldn't have too much of an issue with that, but out of this entire group of boys Harry is one of the few trained to ward off Dementors. He'll be no use to anyone behind this mountain of a man. With Drew standing so close, Harry can't even see what's going on. All Harry can see is the massive expanse of black fabric covering Drew's broad back. Next to Harry, Rosier's chocolate brown eyes go wide and he starts swearing rapidly in what sounds like Spanish under his breath. This, coupled with the sudden depression leeching away at Harry, tells him that the Dementors have arrived.

_A voice is screaming, clearly terrified from somewhere inside Harry's head. It's a woman. By now, Harry has heard this memory enough times to know that these screams are coming from his mother. His mother is pleading, begging for a life. Not her own life, she doesn't seem to care at all what happens to her, but for her son's life: Harry's life._

_ "Not Harry! Not Harry! Please!" the voice screams loudly in Harry's ears, clearly on the edge of tears. "I'll do anything!"_

_ A deep, harsh voice cuts over Lily's desperate sobs. The voice is so cold, so completely devoid of any kind of empathy towards the woman pleading for her baby's life. This is the voice of a man who could never understand a love as strong and pure as that between mother and child. This is the voice of a man who could never understand any kind of love at all._

_ "Stand aside- stand aside, girl!"_

_ The voice is irritated now. All the man wants is the child, but this stupid woman just won't recognize a life-line when it's thrown to her and get the fuck out of the way._

_ "Avada Kedavra!"_

Blackness creeps at the edges of Harry's vision, threatening to eclipse his sight altogether. Harry screw up his eyes, fighting off the overwhelming urge to faint as he tries to focus on a happy memory. He has to ignore his mother's sobs, the flash of green light, the sickening thud of a body hitting the floor. He has to focus on something happy.

_Harry is no longer on Nocturn Alley, no longer in 1944 surrounded by the wizards who will one day evolve from mere bullies to terrorize the world as Death Eaters. No, Harry is sitting in the Great Hall, surrounded by happily chattering students. It is the end of his first year. Exams are over and gone, so the duty to study no longer weighs heavily on him. He's defeated Voldemort and Quirrel. He's a little bruised and sore, but he's happy, and, for now, he's free._

_ On either side of Harry sit Hermione and Ron. At this point, baby fat still clings to both of their faces, rounding and softening their features. Ron is still bandaged from being knocked out during the real-life game of Wizard's Chess, but he's smiling. Little dimples crinkle his freckled cheeks._

_ Dumbledore has just given Harry sixty points for his bravery saving the Sorcerer's Stone. As an excited Hermione points out, they are now tied with Slytherin for the House Cup. The entire room holds its breath._

_ "And finally," continues Dumbledore, a mischievous, knowing smile on his thin lips, "it takes a great deal of courage to stand up to your enemies, but a great deal more to stand up to your friends. I award ten points to Neville Longbottom." Instantly, Gryffindor table bursts out in excited cheers. Neville looks as though he can't believe he heard right, can't believe that everyone is cheering, not just for Harry, Ron and Hermione, but also for him. Draco Malfoy looks like he's just been slapped across the face. Harry can feel the smile splitting his face, can feel the slight tension it causes in his cheeks. They've won. They've actually won the House Cup._

"Expecto Patronum!"

A huge, silver stag bursts from the tip of Harry's wand, its white light piercing through the darkness of Nocturn Alley. It effortlessly maneuvers around the scared group of Slytherin boys to leap into the oncoming horde of Dementors. The first half of the black shapes scatter, driven away by the purity of Harry's happy memory. There are too many of them for Harry's Patronus alone to handle, though. For a second, Harry is reminded of his third year. He remembers huddling over Sirius' body, how endless the circle of Dementors around him felt. The feeling of cold, bony fingers grasping his chin and tilting his face up as black unconsciousness claimed him. There's no second time-travelling Harry to help him out this time. Now he's the time-travelling Harry, and his Patronus isn't enough.

"Expecto Patronum!" calls a deep, confident voice and a massive, silver serpent shoots forward to join Harry's stag. Within the span of ten seconds, the rest of the Dementors are gone. The two wispy, silvery animals just stand there for a moment, side by side, guarding the group of boys. Then they dissolve into mist. Nocturn Alley is dark and still once more. Its chill is no longer icy, just drafty. The Dementors are really and truly gone.

"Stupify!" a jet of red light zings past Harry's left ear, missing him by mere inches. Harry drops to the ground, ducking and rolling away until there's a solid wall behind his back. With the Dementors gone, Grindelwald's human lackies have emerged from their hiding places in dingy shop fronts. The cloaked figures converge on the shaken group of boys, blasting curses left and right. From the corner of his eye, Harry sees Lestrange go down. For the other boy's sake, Harry hopes Lestrange is just stunned. Everyone else is alert and fighting back, though.

"Petrificus Totalus!" shouts Harry as he allows his fighting instincts to take over. His curse hits one of the cloaked figures on the shoulder. A glancing blow, but with spells that doesn't matter. The person goes down, immobile.

"Harry!" calls a voice that sounds disused to being worried.

"Here!" Harry shouts back, deflecting a curse aimed at his head. "I'm ok."

A second later, pale fingers tighten anxiously around Harry's shoulder. Tom squeezes for a second, reassuring himself that Harry really is alright, then releases him. For a moment, Harry freezes, the memory from the Dementors still fresh in his mind. Those pale fingers held the wand from his memory. Those full lips said those cold words to his mother, spoke that fatal incantation. The boy beside him, battling off Grindelwald's followers to protect Harry, killed both of Harry's parents in order to have a chance to kill him. How can he be here, fighting by the side of his parents' murderer?

"Confringo!" a jet of fiery orange light shakes Harry free from his thoughts. Quickly, Harry ducks, spinning out into the center of the street for more maneuverability. Behind him, a crate explodes. Tom follows him, covering Harry's movements by blasting multicolored curses at their opponents. Harry and Tom stand together in the street, side by side. They don't speak, don't verbally coordinate their movements. They don't need to. As Tom fires off a curse, Harry throws up a shield charm to cover them. As Harry stuns a man on their left, Tom takes care of the one on their right. It's effortless.

Within minutes, Grindelwald's followers are all on the ground in various states of incapacitation. Most of them have been stunned, but a few are immobilized. One unfortunate man is currently being held in a headlock beneath Mulciber's massive bicep. Lestrange is unconscious and Rosier has a long, bleeding gash on his leg, but other than that Tom's group is unharmed.

"Bring him here," Tom says to Mulciber, referring to the feebly struggling man trapped in the large Slytherin's armpit. Mulciber drags the man across the pavement like a rag doll.

"Who sent you?" Tom asks. The answer seems obvious, but it can't hurt to confirm that these are indeed Grindelwald's men. The man says nothing, just sneers up rebelliously into Tom's pale face.

"Crucio," mutters Tom, and the man writhes in Mulciber's grip as pain shoots through his every nerve. Tom looks almost bored.

"Now then," says Tom flatly, lifting the spell from the shuddering man, "let's try this again. Who sent you?"

"Who do you think?" the man spits out, glaring up at Tom through his fading pain. Tom's full lips purse slightly, but aside from that his expression remains perfectly blank as he appraises the trapped man.

"Crucio," he states again. This time, he doesn't life the spell for a full thirty seconds. By the time he finally ends the spell, the man's saliva has frothed in his mouth, dripping slowly down his chin like he's a rabid dog. The man's hazel eyes have rolled back into his head, and his breathing is shallow, as though each inhalation pains him. Harry can feel his lunch churning in his stomach at the sight. For a moment, he thinks back to Neville's parents in St. Mungos; their vacant expressions, their empty minds wiped blank by hours of this exact kind of torture.

Harry remembers what he was told about the Unforgivable Curses: in order to really cast the spell to its full extent, one must really and truly want to inflict pain on another for its own sake. Anger or fear isn't enough. Those motives for casting the spell will inflict brief moments of pain, but not intense agony like this. Only a real sadist can cast the Cruciatus Curse like this, only someone who really and truly enjoys the pain of others. Harry looks up into Tom's blank face. The boy's expression is almost one of boredom; as though this man is hardly worth the time it takes to torture information out of him. Harry frowns, staring deeply into those cold, brown eyes. There's no empathy there; no remorse. Those eyes look just the same as when Voldemort killed Harry's mother. Even at this young age, Tom's heart has hardened. Years will pass between this moment and the moment of the murder of Harry's family, and in those years Voldemort's power will grow, but this aspect of Tom Riddle will stay exactly the same. Only someone who views other people as mere objects, someone completely devoid of empathy, could have such an expression of disinterest on their face while causing another human being such agony. Tom is a sociopath.

"Who sent you?" Tom hisses. The man just hangs there for a moment, allowing Mulciber to support his full weight. Then, suddenly, a boot goes flying out, catching Mulciber right in the testicles. Mulciber groans, dropping the man and clasping his hands to his screaming balls. In an instant, the man is lunging straight at Tom, hands outstretched to curl around the younger boy's neck. Without even realizing what he's doing, Harry's wand is up.

"Stupify!" A jet of red light catches the man in the shoulder just as his bony fingers close around Tom's slim neck. The man crumples to the floor, his sudden attack over as quickly as it began. Harry just stands there for a moment, adrenaline still coursing through his system from the suddenness of the man's outburst. Then feverish lips descend upon Harry's own as desperate fingers burrow possessively into Harry's robes. With a loud crack, Tom disapparates them, and the pair vanishes from the groaning pavement of Nocturn Alley.

*Author's Note: Dark lords don't like being defied do they? Well, guys I'm sorry to say that the next chapter will be the final one. Don't worry, though, it's going to go out with a bang. I think you'll find what I have planned interesting. Also, there have been two great suggestions for which story I should write next (both TMR/HP stories of course). The first suggestion is to have Tom Riddle travel forward into Harry's time period. The second suggestion is to have Voldemort posing as Harry's DADA teacher to get closer to him. I like both ideas and will probably end up writing both, but I was wondering which you guys would prefer I write first? Also, if anyone else has any more suggestions or would like to add to either prompt I would love to hear that too. Thank you so much for reading! You guys have been the best group of readers ever!*


	12. Chapter 12

The Dark Tide's Pull Ch. 12

*Author's Note: Alright, guys. Here it is: the final chapter. I'm really sad to see this story end, now that the time has come. You guys have been so great! I really want to thank everyone, especially those dedicated few of you who have reviewed each and every time. You know who you are, and you are amazing! Well, here it is. Enjoy!*

"As long as there's such a thing as time, everybody's damaged in the end, changed into something else. It always happens, sooner or later."  
― Haruki Murakami, _Kafka on the Shore_

Harry's lungs feel tight in his chest, constricted as his body is squeezed through space and time. Then, suddenly, the pressure is gone and he and Tom land in a heap on a hard, tiled floor. Harry starts to sit up, glancing dark, wood paneled walls and a muggle icebox before Tom's angular face eclipses his vision and lips descend on his own once more. Demanding teeth nip sharply at Harry's lower lip, causing a perfectly round bead of blood to well up. A slick tongue swipes the droplet away, savoring its metallic edge. Then, as suddenly as the kiss began, it ends. Tom sits up, then pushes himself into a standing position. Harry quickly follows, taking this opportunity to observe their surroundings. They're in a muggle kitchen. It was clearly well cared for at one point, filled with expensive finishings and fancy appliances. Whoever once called this place home, though, is clearly now gone. It feels too still: unloved and unlived in. All the counters are bare, devoid of any dishes or fruit or signs of human life. All that's left behind is a thin layer of dust.

"Where are we?" Harry asks, frowning. Why would Tom take him to a muggle residence?

"This is the Riddle House," declares Tom disdainfully. "The house of my… relatives." The word 'relatives' seems foreign on Tom's tongue, as if it doesn't quite fit. Harry widens his eyes, looking around the kitchen with new apprehension. This cold house is where Voldemort finally made the transition from manipulative bully to a full blown murderer. This house is where Voldemort first split his soul.

"Some rich old muggle technically owns it right now, but he doesn't live here," continues Tom. "No one lives here. I make sure of it. They may have some stupid little bit of paper declaring this house to be theirs, but this house belonged to my father. It's mine, no matter what some silly muggle deed may say. Mine. The Riddles owe me that at least." These last few words have a bitter tinge. For a moment, he almost sounds sad. Then it passes, and that little glimpse of real emotion slips back under the surface.

"Come on," says Tom, extending a hand out to Harry. "Let's go upstairs." Harry just stands there for a second, staring down at the slender digits stretched out towards him. Then, tentatively, Harry takes the proffered hand in his own. Fingers intertwine, and Tom leads Harry away through a dark, narrow hallway and up the stairs to the second floor. They stop before an ornately carved door at the end of the hall. The pair pauses, Tom just staring contemplatively at the door in silence. Harry knows better than to interrupt. Harry has seen this door before. Not in person, but through the eyes of a frightened old man in his dreams. An old man Voldemort killed. Harry remembers the stab of sadistic pleasure he had felt through his scar that night, the twisted smile that had contorted Voldemort's snakelike face as seen through the old man's eyes. It seems odd to think that the beautiful young man beside him will one day be that crumpled figure the old caretaker had seen huddled in the arm chair in the room beyond. This handsome body is just one of the numerous things Tom will sacrifice for immortality. Beauty is worth nothing; it's fleeting. It always fades and dies in the end. Power, on the other hand, can live forever. It had been a trade Voldemort had happily made.

Tom's pale hand traces the carvings etched into the wood of the door. His flesh seems almost white as it contrasts with the dark wood, like bone. Then, the door is slowly pushed open. The room looks just as Harry remembers it from his dream, only a bit less decrepit. This room has years and years to fall apart between now and its caretaker's death. Two high-backed arm chairs sit facing a massive, stone fireplace. Beneath the chairs rests an ornately patterned rug that clearly cost someone a lot of money. It's looking a bit greyed now.

"Do you know what happened here?" Tom murmurs, his fingers clenching Harry's tightly. He doesn't look at the other boy, though. Instead, he just keeps staring into the still room, seeing the past.

"Yes," Harry replies softly. There's only one thing Tom could be referring to.

"Do you know why he left my mother?" Tom continues. He doesn't wait for Harry to answer, though. "I asked him, you know. Right before he died. Before I killed him. I had thought it was because she had used a love potion on him. Anyone would be upset to be tricked like that. That would've been… understandable. But that wasn't it. He left her because she was a witch, because she was different. He left my mother alone and pregnant, and- and he left me because he was afraid of her magic, afraid that I would be just like her. That snobby little bigot left my witch mother because he knew that she had power he could never dream of! He knew that he was lesser and pathetic in the face of someone really special, and he fled so that he could go stick his head in the sand and tell himself that he's important!"

Tom is now clenching Harry's fingers in an iron grip. Harry ignores the pain, instead staring into Tom's furious face. This is where it all started. Voldemort's hatred of muggles started here in this anger, this hurt at being abandoned by the one person who's never supposed to. Voldemort's hate began in his father's fear and loathing. It was passed down, in his blood, in his very genes. A muggle man hurt Voldemort in the deepest way someone can be hurt, so Voldemort turned that weakness into his strength. In a choice between hating all muggles and admitting that his father's abandonment really hurt him, Voldemort chose genocide. It was easier, less painful. And then, as Voldemort grew more and more powerful, he was proving his father wrong, proving that he's worth something, that he's better than his coward of a dad. In this moment, looking into Tom's pained and angry eyes, Harry finally understands.

Harry's fingers tangle in dark curls as he turns Tom's face towards him. Soft lips press tenderly together. Tom almost seems surprised. Then pale fingers are curling around Harry's hip, turning the brunette in towards Tom's body. Tom gently tugs on Harry's frame, dragging him backwards into the drawing room. Lips trail down Harry's jaw, feeling the sharp bone beneath the skin. Tom unclasps Harry's cloak, allowing the fabric to pool to the floor in a black puddle. Harry's shirt quickly follows. Sharp nails scrape down Harry's now exposed chest, leaving soft, pink lines in their wake. The motion isn't quite harsh enough to break the skin, just agitate it. It doesn't even hurt, really.

"Shoes off," orders Tom, the command whispered intimately against the shell of Harry's ear. Harry complies, kicking off his sneakers and then his socks as well for good measure. No one looks dignified wearing nothing but socks. Without needing to be prompted, Harry shimmies his trousers and boxers down his legs as well. While Harry is busy undressing, Tom is getting naked as well. He tugs his shirt off over his head on one elegant sweep. Every motion is graceful, effortless: Tom's own little bit of vanity. Then both boys stand there, in the room where three people once died, murdered by Tom's own hand: the very same hands now caressing the sharp line of Harry's collarbone. Harry shivers; now that there's a pause, some stillness, he is suddenly very aware of the room's empty chill. Tiny bumps erupt along his arm, causing the fine, dark hairs there to stand on end. He's suddenly very grateful for the warmth seeping from Tom's caressing hands.

Tom curls one hand loosely around the base of Harry's neck, stroking the fragile flesh there tenderly with his thumb: a dangerous caress. Should his hand tighten, Harry wouldn't be able to breath. Blood and airflow to his brain would cease, and the world would slowly begin to grow fuzzy and dark. Harry doesn't protest at the gesture, though. He allows the slight threat, the subtle test of Harry's trust. Tom stares into Harry's emerald eyes, gauging the other boy's reaction as he tightens his grip ever so slightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to emphasize that it could hurt if Tom so desired. Harry remains perfectly still, his expression blank, allowing this little example of Tom's power over him. Tom's free hand caresses Harry's bare torso, moving down slowly over each slightly jutting rib. Then exploring fingers splay over Harry's taut stomach, pressing slightly into the hard muscle of Harry's abdomen. Tom slides his hand down until his wrist is pressing teasingly against the elevated tip of Harry's erect penis. Slowly, fingers curl around the engorged flesh, squeezing it at the same time that Tom's other hand clenches down on Harry's neck. It's a strange experience for Harry, having his attention split like this between the danger of the fingers around his neck and the pleasure of the ones currently pumping his cock. At first, the pleasure seems to hold more ground as Tom's thumb flickers over the head of Harry's penis, spreading out the droplets of pre-cum there. Then, however, as lack of oxygen and blood begins to be prolonged, Harry's attention snaps upward. He's starting to see flashes of colored light flicker across his vision, starting to see blackness eclipse his visual field. Harry gasps, trying desperately to inhale as his hands shoot up to tug sharply at Tom's clenching fingers. The second Harry's fingertips make contact with Tom's flesh, the brunette releases Harry. Tom would gain nothing from Harry's death. His horcrux is worth more to him than the pleasure he would gain from watching the life slowly drain from Harry's eyes.

Harry gasps in a much needed breath of air, then lips descend on his, kissing him almost brutally hard. Teeth clack together painfully, but Tom doesn't seem to care about the minor discomfort. A hand on Harry's hip guides him backwards as they kiss, tongues sliding wetly together in Harry's mouth. Then, suddenly, Tom's lips are gone as Tom drops down into one of the arm chairs in front of the fireplace. One more sharp tug on Harry's hip sends the green-eyed boy sprawling across Tom's lap, one leg on either side of the Slytherin's narrow hips. Tom looks up into Harry's startled face almost ponderously, taking in the boy's flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. He wraps a hand around his own hard cock, stroking it languidly as he continues to watch the other boy. Then he leans forward, still stroking himself slowly, to kiss Harry's bare chest. Lips close around Harry's dusky nipple, a tongue swirling around the rosy bud until it's a hard peak. Then, suddenly, Harry yelps as a finger is pressed into his puckered entrance. The invading digit is dry and feels uncomfortable encased in Harry's warm flesh: very foreign, very much as though it does not belong. Tom bites down on Harry's erect nipple, dragging another surprised gasp from the Boy-Who-Lived. Then, without bothering to wait for Harry to adjust to the first intrusion, a second finger slips inside him. This time the intrusion isn't just uncomfortable: it hurts, the stretch stinging in Harry's most sensitive place. Tom kisses Harry's chest almost tenderly, almost soothingly, but his motions remain bluntly insensitive as he scissors his fingers inside of Harry, stretching him out.

"This is the same chair my father was in," Tom comments between kisses, his fingers pumping in and out of Harry's sore flesh, touching Harry in the most intimate of places. "The same chair he sat in while I tortured him with the cruciatus curse. The same chair I killed him in." Tom's erection twitches against Harry's stomach with these words, arousal making the Slytherin's cock rosy and so hard that it almost hurts. Small beads of pre-cum leak from the head of Tom's penis, dripping slowly down his hard length. Tom spreads the salty fluid around a little with the tip of his thumb, then tugs Harry's hips up, raising the other boy over his throbbing erection. Harry gasps, his hands shooting up to clench Tom's shoulders for support as the Dark Lord begins to slowly lower him down onto his cock. It feels as though he's being split in half, as though he'll never be able to fit anything so large inside of him. But his flesh stretches, reluctantly making room for the intrusion. Tom groans as Harry's tight flesh engulfs him, squeezing his cock so hard that he too almost thinks he's going to break. Harry is so tight, so new; only Tom has ever touched him like this, only Tom has ever been inside him. First Tom's soul, and now his throbbing member. Harry quivers gently in Tom's lap as the other boy is finally in him all the way to the hilt. Harry's erection has flagged slightly due to the pain, but Tom wraps tender fingers around the wilting muscle, stroking him gently back to full hardness.

"You should have seen it, Harry," Tom whispers, pressing a kiss tenderly to Harry's shoulder. "You should have seen the way the light just drained from his eyes, the way his face just froze, suddenly unable to move, stuck forever in that state of terror. Terror I caused. Me." At this point, Tom starts to move inside Harry, guiding Harry's hips up and down to meet each thrust. It still hurts, still feels impossible to have something as big as Tom's engorged erection filling Harry up, but it's manageable. Then, as Tom's thrusts change their angle slightly, Tom hits some spot inside Harry that has him groaning.

"That muggle bastard died exactly where we're sitting, where we're fucking," continues Tom, his words surprisingly even despite his cock pumping in and out of Harry's tight entrance. "We are going to be the perfect team, you and I," says Tom, gruesome excitement flooding his voice. "Together, you and I will be invincible. Not even time can stand in our way; with my soul inside of you we shall be immortal, invincible. No one will be able to stand against us, no one. And together we shall put muggles in their proper place. They all think that they're so superior, with their narrow minded views and ignorant ways. But we'll show them. They're nothing compared to those born with magic, nothing compared to us. They can only dream about the kind of power we have." Tom is slamming into Harry now, thrusting upwards so hard that Harry practically shakes with each impact. Despite the horrible things that Tom is saying, Harry can feel his orgasm approaching, pleasure coiling tightly in the pit of his stomach.

"Muggles will serve wizards or die," Tom goes on, his voice strained now as his orgasm, too, builds rapidly. "Together, our power will be so great that everyone must bow before us or be wiped out. No one will be able to stand up against us. No one. Together-" Tom's rant is cut off here as pleasure overtakes him, his seed spurting out deep inside Harry's warm body. Harry cums too at the look of twisted pleasure on Tom's handsome face, white fluid spurting against Tom's smooth chest and splashing lightly against Harry's own stomach. The pair sits still for a moment, catching their breath as Tom's spent erection begins to wither in Harry's body. After a moment, Tom pulls out, his cock red and slightly sore from forcing itself inside Harry's tight passage. Harry can feel Tom's seed dripping wetly down his leg, seeping languidly out of him. It isn't a pleasant feeling.

"Here," says Harry, leaning backwards so as to fish his wand out from his crumpled robes. "Let me clean us up." Harry points his wand at Tom's exposed chest, pressing the tip down into the indent just beneath the center of the Slytherin's ribcage. Tom's hands slide up to rest languidly on Harry's protruding hipbones, one thumb stroking Harry's skin affectionately. Harry pauses for a moment, temporarily forgetting about the cleaning charm as he examines Tom's satisfied face. It's so strange to think that this darkly beautiful boy will one day become that bald, snakelike creature. Harry examines the boy's straight, narrow nose: a classic, aristocratic feature. Tom looks so much better with a real nose instead of just flat, reptilian slits. But someday this body will be taken from Tom: the final transition from Tom Marvolo Riddle to Lord Voldemort. Tom's eventual loss of his body will finalize his separation from his father, will finally provide him the independence he so longs for. When Voldemort remakes himself, it is using Harry's blood, not Tom Riddle Sr.'s. Voldemort's new snakelike body will be clean of his father's genes, will free him from that painful connection. Still, though, that new body will go on to do even worse things than this handsome one. Harry's mind flickers across all of the horrid things the boy before him will grow up to do: the people he'll kill, the families he'll rip apart through torture and death and fear. This beautiful boy will be capable of such darkness, already is capable of it. Harry is taken back to the visions the Dementors made him remember less than an hour earlier. His mother's pleading, the sickening thud of her dead body hitting the floor, the utter lack of any warmth in Voldemort's harsh voice.

"Well?" prompts Tom, a small smirk quirking up the corners of his lips. Obviously he thinks that Harry is caught up in admiring Tom's good looks. "Are you going to clean up this mess we've made or not?" Harry looks down at this boy sitting in the same chair he murdered his very own father in, splattered with cum and sweat and stinking of sex. He nods.

"Yeah, I am," he says solemnly, his voice soft and thin in the oppressive, formal room. "Avada Kedavra." Tom doesn't even have time to look surprised as the jet of green light sinks into his pallid chest. There isn't so much as a second for the future dark lord to fight back; he doesn't even have time to register Harry's betrayal, to realize that the other half of his soul has given him up. Tom dies with a slight, teasing smile still on his face, his expression warm and peaceful. He dies exactly like his muggle father did, the father who abandoned him for his magic, who left wounds so great that they caused an entire war, killed thousands of people. But now, with just one more death, the violence is over. It's almost anti-climactic.

Limp fingers fall from Harry's waist as Harry carefully maneuvers himself out of the arm chair. Slowly, still encased in quiet shock, Harry gets dressed. With each article of clothing, Harry James Potter slowly begins to reassemble himself. By the time Harry has tied both shoes, it's almost sunk in what he's done. It's over. Voldemort is dead. The man who murdered his parents is dead. It's really, finally over. Harry pulls the time turner out of the pocket of his jeans, holding the little hourglass to his chest like a toddler would clutch a teddy bear. Reluctantly, almost afraid of what he will see, Harry turns to look at Tom's body once more. Nothing has changed. Tom hasn't suddenly gasped back to life. Harry feels no hate as he examines Tom's angular face, no sense of satisfaction or vindication. This killing was not about avenging the past. This killing was about fixing the future. Harry does feel a slight pang of regret as he looks into Tom's unseeing brown eyes, not about his own actions, but out of sympathy for the other boy. This broken boy craved power, to be special, to be different, so much that it consumed him entirely. That desire for power left no room for anything else, anything more. And now Tom's dead body is as hollow as Tom's soul was during life: hollow, empty and broken. As soon as Tom split his soul apart through his father's murder Tom was doomed. Even going this far back in time hadn't been enough to save him. By Tom's 17th birthday the damage had already long since been done.

Harry gathers up his cloak in his hands, draping it carefully over Tom's naked frame. No one, not even the darkest wizard of all time deserves to be left dead and naked and covered in fluids. Even he deserves this small amount of respect, of pity. Harry reaches up with tentative fingers to touch Tom's still warm face, gingerly pressing his fingertips to the other boy's eyelids. Carefully, Harry closes Tom's glassy eyes. This is where Tom's lust for power had led him. Tom had aimed too high, desired too much, but all it had left him was a long, long way to fall back down again. Harry strokes a dark curl back from Tom's wan face. Now, with his eyes shut and Harry's cloak over him, Tom almost looks peaceful. If Harry didn't know better, he could've sworn the Slytherin was just asleep.

Harry steps back, away from the arm chair. Solemnly, Harry lifts the time turner up before him. Then, Harry flips it over towards himself, the opposite direction as before. Fine, white grains of sand begin to fall upwards within the glass, defying gravity. Carefully, focusing entirely on the action, Harry begins to count.

The room Harry lands in is much like the one he just left. The only difference, aside from a few extra cobwebs here and there, is the lack of Tom's body. Harry gasps, hastily drawing air into his painfully compressed lungs. It was harder to go forward in time than backwards. It had felt as though time itself was clinging to his skin, trying to hold him in place. It was like walking into a strong wind, your skin stretched taut and your muscles aching as you push your way forwards. But now Harry is here, back in his own time again. It feels surreal. Harry logically grasps the situation, the finality of everything, but emotionally it hasn't hit home yet. That will probably still take some time. After all, Harry has spent his whole life fighting off Voldemort; for him to simply be gone, vanished into thin air seems crazy, impossible. Had it even worked? What if Dumbledore had been wrong and Voldemort hadn't simply vanished from this world? What if it had all been for nothing? There's only one way to find out. Harry spins on the spot, disapparating with a crack.

Harry lands outside the gates to Hogwarts with a thump, wavering and almost falling over. A hand on his shoulder quickly steadies him, though. Harry looks up to see twinkling blue eyes shining down on him. A huge smile splits Dumbledore's face, causing his features to crinkle into a sea of happy wrinkles. Tears sparkle in Dumbledore's eyes, but they're not sad tears. These tears drip with relief, with gratitude, and, without anything needing to be said, Harry understands that it worked. Voldemort is gone. Not just in the past, but now in the present.

"You did it, my dear boy," murmurs Dumbledore, his voice soft and warm and soothing. There's pride there: pride and love.

"Harry!" exclaims a familiar voice from behind Harry, and arms fling themselves around Harry's torso, almost knocking him to the ground anew.

"Hermione," Harry breathes, turning around within the girl's embrace to face her. Bushy brown hair tickles Harry's cheek, but he ignores it, sliding his arms around Hermione's narrow waist in return and squeezing gently.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione gasps, her voice quavering slightly as though on the verge of tears. "You've done it! You've actually done it! I was so worried!" Harry smiles, warmth pooling in his stomach. Through the cloud of Hermione's frizzy hair, Harry catches a glimpse of orange and freckles.

"It worked, mate," says Ron, a massive smile tugging at this lips. "Voldemort just vanished. Right into thin air! Apparently he was just about to hex Draco Malfoy for disobeying him or something when he just went poof! Right into thin air! Almost a pity it wasn't a second later, though…"

"Ron!" exclaims Hermione indignantly, pulling away from Harry to shoot Ron a disapproving look.

"Right, right," backpedals Ron hurriedly. "What I meant to say was thank Merlin weasel-face is alright." Harry chuckles, a smile of pure happiness taking over his face by storm. This right here, this playful teasing and deep affection is why Harry had to do what he did. These relationships, this love make it all worthwhile. Harry would kill a thousand times over to protect these people, to defend these relationships. Even if Tom had somehow grown to love Harry despite his sociopathy, that love would never have been stronger than his love of power. And as long as the love of power overrules the power of love, then no one can be saved. The prophecy about Harry and Voldemort states that Harry would have power the Dark Lord knows not, and in the end, that was true. Tom liked the idea of Harry, but most of all he liked the idea of himself in Harry: his horcrux, his soul. Tom's affection for Harry, when it all boiled down to it, had been pure narcissism. Harry has something that Tom never will: the ability to really, truly love someone else. That love is what gave Harry the will to fight back, is what gave the killing curse its power. Love protected Harry all those years ago when Voldemort tried to kill Harry, and now love is what Harry used to protect those he cares about.

As Ron steps forward to give Harry a slightly awkward, manly hug as well, Harry knows that he would kill Voldemort any number of times to save these people, in the past, present or future.

*Author's note: And thus ends The Dark Tide's Pull. I hope you guys have enjoyed this story. I would love to hear your reactions to the ending. I know there were a lot of you hoping that they would end up together, but I just couldn't feel that for this particular story. Next time, I promise! Also, the results of all your voting is in! More of you want me to write the DADA fic, but there was definitely interest in the time travel fic as well. Soooooo... I'm combining them! Tom Riddle is going to travel to Harry's time and pose as Harry's DADA teacher to find out more about this boy powerful enough to defeat him as just a baby. I hope this solution sounds good to everyone. If you guys want to be told when the first chapter of this fic is posted (within a couple of days I expect) then you should put me on Author Alert. Thank you all so much for reading and following along! You guys have been such a great group of readers, and I really do appreciate each and every one of you! I hope to hear from you all again for my next TMR/HP Story! :)*


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